


Dark Blood

by Anwyn, Spiced_Wine



Series: Dark Prince ~ The Darkness Has Its Own Light [3]
Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Het Sex, Incest, M/M Sex, Multi, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 82,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anwyn/pseuds/Anwyn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>He came out of Night, but he did not come alone.<br/>Now the darkest of powers seek to show Vanimórë that his path was laid before him long ago, and that his destiny is to aid Morgoth's return before the Dagor Dagorath, the Last Battle at the end of the world.<br/>If he falls, there is no way back.</p><p>
  <i>Fëanor's eyes glowed in the red-black which emanated from the figure. His sword shone white as he stepped forward.</i>
</p><p>''I have...<b>long</b> desired this, Jail Crow!'' The words were exultant, his smile beautiful.</p><p>Third in the <i>Dark Prince</i> series, sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/12840">Dark Lands</a></p><p>
  <a href="http://s276.photobucket.com/albums/kk3/Tindomion_Maglorion/Maps/?action=view&current=Middle-earth_3BOUNDS_AVS-1.jpg">The Age of Powers and Kings. Fourth Age map & named avatars.</a>
</p><p>Dark Prince AU map (template courtesy of MERP) showing kingdoms of the Fourth Age, plus named icons of the main characters. Double click. Very large image. (1457 x 968 pixels)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Moth And The Flame

**Author's Note:**

>   
> Warning:this story contains content matter including M/M slash incest, violence, graphic sex, rape and torture.
> 
> Due to current problems with the pairings and character options, be advised pairings include, Fëanor/Maglor, Fëanor/Fingolfin, Vanimórë/Maglor, Fëanor/Elgalad, Maglor/Elgalad, Glorfindel/Legolas and Anwyn/Elphir.
> 
> The lands and cities referred to in Dark Lands, Dark Blood and Dark God, with the exception of New Cuiviénen, are © to the [](http:)Lindëfirion site, who permit their maps to be used if credit is given. I thank them for their wonderful work.
> 
> As Dark Lands, this begins approximately 25 years after the War of the Ring.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow the world created by JRR Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Elgalad Meluion, and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkiens universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2009 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission. The character of Anwyn is © to Bayley Jackson.

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
  
**The Moth and the Flame.**   
  
  
**New Ciuviénen **   


  
~ The sun slowly descended in a sky of enamel-blue. Only over the distant mountains did clouds drift, cream-white, lazy as lovers walking hand in hand. The great waters lay like beaten glass, bees droned in herb and flower. Some slept, for New Ciuviénen was not a silent place under the stars but filled with the sound of harp and music. This was the quietest time of day, between noon and the onset of evening. Then the wind would rise as it always did, bringing coolness to the vast lawns and gardens.

Glorfindel had returned from Tanith, bringing Elgalad. Maglor, with the others had come forward to greet them, enfolding his son close. Tindómion's eyes held the memory of horror as he told his father what had happened, what he had witnessed in the Games and on the isle of darkness. He spoke grimly of feeling his memories drain from him leaving apathetic despair. There was such a remembered grief in his voice that Maglor was chilled.

''I felt I had lost something dear to me, yet did not know what – and then even that feeling was swallowed.'' Tindómion had said. ''Somehow it was worse than any battle, any creature of darkness. Dost thou understand?'' He had stepped back and silver eyes met silver. ''To not remember everything thou hast ever done, everything of thy life, even the griefs? To have nothing?''

A shiver had passed through Maglor. What were they without their woven tapestry of memories? Who would he be if he knew nothing save darkness, if all were sucked from him?

And there was Elgalad, his face translucent with shock and pain, eyes wounded to the bottom of his soul. Vanimórë was gone. He was not dead, was just...gone. He had not returned from the isle.

''Then where is he?'' Maglor had asked, but there was no answer, or if there was one, it was too disturbing to be voiced. He had walked into the darkness, and not emerged from it.

Elgalad was lodged in the palace and was walking now in the gardens. That thick curtain of silver hair was unmistakable. He stood with his back to Maglor, looking across the lake, his body straight as a lance. All his senses seemed bent to waiting, watching, listening. He did not move until Maglor spoke and then his head came around. The silent suffering in his face was something the Fëanorion was only too familiar with. He had seen in Maedhros after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and there had been nothing he could do, no comfort he could give. There was little enough he could give now, but he was impelled to try, and he said, gently: ''He is not dead, Elgalad. he cannot die, not truly.''

''Then where is h-he?'' Elgalad asked, as if Maglor could answer. His eyes were pale and brilliant, but no tears gleamed in them, it was as if they had been burned from him by fear and longing.

''No-one knows. But Glorfindel would know if he was gone beyond recall. They are the Chosen, they are bound. Glorfindel can sense it.''

''And all of thee h-hate h-him.'' Hot, accusing.

''Some of us have reason to hate,'' Maglor retorted.

The grey eyes darkened. ''I would give m-my _life_ to have from h-him what thou didst have.''

It was Maglor whose cheeks flushed then. Elgalad's were still milk-white.  
''Thou art mad,'' he snapped and then caught himself. ''Forgive me, but thy love for him goes beyond anything I can fathom.'' His eyes swept slowly over the lovely face. ''He has never taken thee, Glorfindel says. I find that impossible to believe.''

Elgalad's voice broke a little. ''Not for want of m-me trying, I assure th-thee.'' He pushed his hands into his hair. "He says he loves m-me." But the doubt shone clear through the words and there was a question in the great eyes which was not voiced save in his mind. _ But how can he love me and not take me? _

''I believe that,'' Maglor murmured. ''How could he not? Thou hast a purity that he needs, but — ''

''He is _ n-not impure._ Is one who is raped m-made impure b-by that, then?'' Elgalad's hands clenched, even as Maglor shook his head in refutation. ''And I am not pure. He knows that.''

A faint smile broke the gravity of the Fëanorion's stern face. ''If thou didst have an hundred lovers thou wouldst still be pure as snow-melt, Elgalad." He took the tense arm. "Come. Legolas would like to see thee."

Maglor did not imagine his brothers or father would evince much interest in Elgalad, yet it troubled him because he knew how some of them looked at Legolas. He frowned as he walked with Elgalad to the silver-white villa overlooking the inland sea, and Legolas came to meet them. They could almost have been brothers as they came together and embraced.

He left them to speak, and found his own steps leading him back to the palace, to his his father. Could one who seemed so innocent and so gentle of heart, truly invoke love in a heart as deep and dark as Vanimórë's?  
To his surprise, Fëanor laughed at the question.  
''Thou dost confuse darkness with evil. Am I dark, then?''

''No, father.'' Maglor's brows drew together. ''But thou art not the son of Sauron.''

''Vanimórë has Noldorin blood, also. And yes, I can see what one with his life, and his temperament would see in Elgalad.'' Fëanor had been examining gems, and now laid two in his palm, both were diamonds; one was ice-clear and the other such a dark blue it was almost black.

''Both of these have their beauties, and both are the same gem. But this one has formed in the earths deeps and been brought forth without color, pure as the tarns in the mountains. And this one,'' Fëanor held up the dark stone. ''Through slow Ages, touched by other elements, this has formed to the shade of the sky after sunset. Both have their brilliance, their secret fire.'' He tilted his head. '' Which is more beautiful, my son?''

''Yes, I see,'' Maglor murmured. ''Both have their beauty. So thou wouldst say that Vanimórë has emerged from his life as a black diamond''

His father nodded, smiling. ''Colored diamonds are formed by the taint of other minerals and rocks in the deep places of the earth, just as the son of Sauron was tainted by his life. Yet I have polished this and cut it and now it blazes with a black, beautiful fire. Set beside this other, the contrast is very pleasing.''

''I hear thee.'' Even as he spoke, Maglor's skin flushed. Fëanor laughed softly, his fingers slipping into the jet hair.  
''And what does Sauron's son see in Elgalad? He sees something pure, something innocent, his own innocence which was reft from him, which he thinks he has to protect, but he sees also the white fire within. I have looked at Elgalad Meluion, and I tell thee truly, I admire Vanimórë for his control, for I would not have such.''

''Father,'' Maglor exclaimed, recognizing the arousal in the lucent eyes. ''Vanimórë may not have touched Elgalad, but they are bound, and I believe that bastard get of Sauron's could climb from the Void itself if any-one touched Elgalad...''

''Yes, perhaps he would indeed battle Night for his beloved..." Fëanor's eyes narrowed as if seeing something very far away, and his teeth gleamed in a smile which reminded Maglor shockingly of Vanimórë. It was redolent of seduction.

''And thou?'' Fëanor wondered. ''Are thy dreams still troubled?'' He moved closer and gathered up the waves of ebony hair. It poured sleek as molten metal through his white fingers. ''Still thou dost yearn for the forbidden, just as my dear half-brother. It is quite entertaining to watch the both of thee deny it.'' His lips touched the delicate point of Maglor's ear, delicately traced down to where the pulse thundered under his jaw, then he stepped back, letting the hair fall. His laugh was not without paternal affection as turned back to the great table.

Maglor erupted from the room like a cat rousted by a hunting hound and found himself in his own chambers. He had moved into them only since returning from across the mountains. His father had not ordered it, but had made it clear that he wished his second son to reside in the palace. And Maglor, who wanted to be close to his father while fearing him, had acquiesced. He drank wine and leaned against the wall. His nerves were afire; they throbbed, screamed for release.

_Why do I burn so for those I cannot have and should not want? _

Few could resist the charismatic flame of Fëanor. He certainly had not, did not think he could now, if it came to it. The thought drove him back out and in the hall below he almost collided with Caranthir.

"What ails thee?" his brother demanded.

''Nothing, I am looking for Istelion,'' Maglor told him. His his brother gave him a thoughtful look.

''I saw him not long ago, he was going to ride out with Legolas and Glorfindel and the Sinda, Elgalad.''

"Well, Elgalad will be safe enough with them," Maglor said before he could stop himself.

''Innocent as an Elf new come to adulthood, he looks, a lamb among wolves, and as tempting. I wager he is no virgin, though."

''No. And yes, he does tempt.''

Caranthir touched his arm. ''Glorfindel bought him. None will touch him if he is unwilling.''

_The trouble is, that our father can make one willing, _ Maglor thought in the privacy of his own mind.

~~~

_Where art thou, my Lord? Lord Glorfindel says thou art not gone, into...nothing, but where art thou? _

Elgalad reached for the branch of a great tree, swung himself up without effort, feeling comfort in the warm bark, the whisper of the leaves in the night-breeze. He came to the woods each day, drawn to them as much as the need to be alone.

_I am with thee._

He clung to the hope that Vanimórë lived as tightly, as desperately as he had clung to that hope for hundreds of years in Mirkwood. But then he had only had his own heart to help him, a belief that he would know if his lord was gone. Now he had been told by a god. He believed it, but _where_ was Vanimórë?

_ Eru, do not let him be suffering...Surely he has been tormented enough? _

''Come down, Elgalad.'' The rich, beautiful voice jolted him and he peered down, seeing the brightness of the High King's face in the dimness, his eyes incandescent.

Elgalad's heart thudded as he jumped down, bowing to the mightiest Elf who had ever lived. Since seeing him for the first time, he had found himself mesmerized, perhaps because Fëanor reminded him in many ways of Vanimórë; the unconscious arrogance, the way he walked as if he owned Arda or gave not the snap of his fingers who did.

''Sire?'' he murmured.

Fëanor laid a hand upon the straight back.  
''Dost thou find solace among the trees?''

Elgalad replied quietly: "I find little solace any-where n-now."

''Thou canst believe Glorfindel when he says that thy lord lives. How can he die, he was made a god? Glorfindel's physical form was destroyed, but he clothed himself in one anew. Come. Let us talk.''

As they walked from the trees up the wide green lawns before the palace, he continued: ''I have been in the Void, I _burned_ in the Void, mocked by the voices of the cursed. But I would not cease to _be._ The Void is not for the souls of the _Eruhíni._* Vanimórë will return.''

''The Void...'' Elgalad stopped only to be firmly propelled onwards. ''That d-darkness on the isle, Nothing...'' He looked up. He was tall, but Fëanor taller still. The luminous eyes glowed, catching the lamplight that streamed out through the colonnades. Hangings stirred in the wind from the lake as they entered a room of white and gold, with the flame-red touches of the House woven into banners and rugs. Fëanor crossed to a side table and poured a cool, golden wine.

''From all I have heard of Vanimórë, he will not let mere darkness prevent him from returning. Drink.''

Elgalad sipped and followed the gesture to sit. The long couch was piled with cushions of silver and scarlet. Fëanor lounged beside him, leaned on one arm.

''I thank thee.''

Ebon brows rose quizzically. ''For what? And call me Fëanor.''

''Thou doth m-make me feel more h-hopeful...''

''I was not hopeful of leaving the Everlasting Dark, I was _certain._'' He reached out, touched the flood of silver hair. ''As Vanimórë is certain, I am sure.''

Elgalad had the most innocent of eyes, Fëanor thought, clear as dew. And the dew began to fall. One tear escaped from under the thick rill of dark lashes, traced a path down the fair skin. Elgalad's expression did not change; he made no sound at all as another fell. Fëanor's fingers moved, the tips delicately blotting the tears, then he drew them to his lips, tasted the salt.

''The blood of thy soul,'' he murmured, and his voice, melting into a rich darkness sent a tremor through Elgalad.

''Father?'' Maglor's voice came from the long window, and the High King turned his head, smiled.

''Yes?''

Elgalad looked up and Maglor saw the light catch the streaks of water on his cheeks; he cast a look edged with anger at his father, received a faint shake of the head in response.

''Pour thyself some wine. Join us.''

''Excuse m-me, I will g-go.'' Elgalad began to rise.

''Stay,'' Fëanor commanded and he sank back, his hands linked around the cup. He felt Maglor come to his side and his nerves sparked with intimations of danger, skin burning as if he were too close to an open fire. Maglor rested a hand on his back.  
"Peace," he said reassuringly, and kissed Elgalad's cheek. It should have been comforting. It was meant to be. Was it?

Elgalad felt the slippery sensation of black hair against his skin and closed his eyes. Vivid memories scorched through him, and he yearned toward the closeness like a flower toward the warmth of the sun. He moved his head so that his lips met Maglor's, and all his longing flowed into the kiss. His longing, and his desperate desire. 

_I want, I want..._

His response was astonishing to Maglor. It was wine-and-honey, not as innocent as he might have imagined. Elgalad was fiercely hot. Vanimórë's stalwart refusal to make love to him was burning him up.

And was there, perhaps, the thought that this was a way of striking back at the one who had seduced him so thoroughly in the darkness of Mordor? Perhaps, but it flickered out, extinguished by the hot surge of his blood.

In the presence of one such as Fëanor, such an act was oil thrown on a torch. His goblet fell, ringing and rolling, shedding the lees. Elgalad felt hands in his hair, unraveling the thick braids, fingers pluck the ties of his shirt, his breeches. Silken skin pressed against skin, muscle against muscle. There were lips on his. He gasped and arched back as teeth and tongue grazed across his nipples, and thrust upward to be enclosed by a hot mouth. He moaned. "Yes."

''I know what thou needest, Elgalad.''  
His closed eyes flew wide as a finger, made slick with some oil or unguent entered him. And then they closed, and the breath caught in his throat as he was entered, hugely comprehensively. His hands clung to Maglor, tangled in heavy hair. He keened. Kisses patterned his face, his throat, his chest, and then Fëanor moved, and Elgalad throbbed into shocking pleasure. It had been too long. He hardened, felt a mouth close over him and writhed between the two points of bliss and pain, lost to everything except the crescendo which mounted within him. He heard himself pleading, begging shamelessly for more, and thought he would faint of the intensity – and then the wave broke, crashed over him like foaming surf. All went dark before his eyes as he fell to the cushions of the couch.

Fëanor's eyes shone like lamps in the dimness as he smiled across at Maglor.  
''Vanimórë does not know what he denies himself...but he shall,' he promised, and reached forward, a hand winding in his son's heavy hair.

Like a great storm, need broke through Maglor. He plunged into the kiss, the touches, his body slamming up against his father's. He was pushed down, and then pain...fullness, _heaviness_ stretching him, owning him, the thrill of something so wrong and of such terrible beauty. There was a savagery in it, and he was as lost as Elgalad had been, as hungry, as aching, as wanton...

He shuddered, lying upon his stomach, cloaked in his hair, as Fëanor rose, smiling, and went to get wine. His eyes feasted on the two upon the bed, one so fair, the other so dark, and there was something wild, richly satisfied in his smile as he drank and then put down the tray beside the couch and stalked like a great black maned cat to the colonnade.

He shook back his hair, his teeth flashing white in the night and his unearthly gaze tracked left towards Fingolfin's mansion.

Elgalad murmured softly. He had drifted half out of the world, into dreams. Now he felt the retuning ache within him and reached out, seeing tumbled black hair. Maglor, his eyes hazed with shock and ecstasy reached out, drew him close and Elgalad buried his head against his shoulder.

_ We seduced thee._ Maglor played with the silver hair. _Thou didst need this but it was we who acted, father by bringing thee here, I by feeling the need to ease thy pain. Excuses, both. And my father wanted – what he always did._

''No heart-rendings,'' Fëanor said from the balcony. ''Vanimórë would tell thee that there is no guilt in consensual pleasure.'' He laughed softly. ''And thou wert pleasured, Elgalad, wert thou not? I most certainly was.''

Elgalad's breath caught. Maglor looked up at his father, shining white, terrifyingly powerful and felt the return of agonizing arousal.

''And thou?'' Fëanor questioned.

Maglor closed his eyes.

''Thou dost concern thyself too much with morality. I need...what I need, my beautiful son. And so dost thou.'' His fingers brushed over the bare shoulder. ''I burned alone in the Void too long to deny myself.''

Maglor did not see him leave, but he felt it, the passing from the room of pure energy, and he locked Elgalad more firmly in his embrace.

***

And in a place out of Time and close as the thickness of a shadow, another felt this union of sheer animal desire. He had, after all, bound Elgalad to him so tightly that the Elf was almost part of his own soul.

And fury burned Vanimórë into dark light in the blackness, lighting his way back to Middle-earth.

As Fëanor had guessed it would. ~

  



	2. Love's Fury

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ Rage incinerated the cold blackness, the despair in his soul which had held him stubbornly in the horror, accepting it as his final act. But an act of his choosing.

_...Thou wilt open the door for Melkor's return, help him through the doors of Night when the Powers grow weary at the End of Days. _

**No. I fought them, all my life! To not become them, to not break. They did not make _me!_ I am myself! **

They were not fools, Morgoth and Sauron; a weak servant would not have suited their purpose, could not have been forged into what Vanimórë became. Only some-one whose whole life was defiance and hate could become what they desired.  
Eru had seen that. But Vanimórë had been chosen even before Sauron drew the child from the dying woman's womb...And Vanimórë himself had only seen that he had never broken, had felt a certain pride in that.

He could almost have laughed, save the cold that seeped into him was too great. An iron door slammed fast over him. He would **never ** aid Melkor's return. His loathing was a live, bitter thing within him. He ceased to fight. Let the primeval Night hold him here...

_Elgalad. I am sorry._

And then his father's voice spoke to him and he felt, through the links forged in his soul, that somewhere Elgalad had surrendered to his long-denied needs. He was possessed, blazing with a passion so wanton, so fierce that even in the unrelenting blackness, Vanimórë felt it.

And he detonated with a rage even he knew was illogical.

His mind opened without hesitation, and he felt _them_ slide into it, two spirits latent and aware, able to use him as eyes and ears, as a tool, as a weapon. _As they had before._ But he absorbed them almost impatiently, reaching out his arms as if to embrace a lover. And Ungoliant leaped at him.

He swallowed the darkness, transformed it. As it entered him he infused it with the power of his fury. The Void became a battleground, and Vanimórë fought with the dauntless ferocity he had used to deny Morgoth and Sauron until he felt Ungoliant begin to retreat. Unrelenting, he pursued her.

She was not gone, could never be gone but she could not devour him, and was burned by his wrath.

There was no point of reference for him, but he saw, as through a window far away, a pinprick of light which did not emanate from him. It held living colours, blue and green, white and umber. He swept toward it.

_Arda... _

Arda as he had never seen it: a globe of beauty and fecundity amid the firefly pulses of stars, a world vibrant with life. It became a living map of seas and mountains, forest and desert, the ribbons of rivers, plains of grass. Yet his mind was fixed on one point alone, on a living jewel backed by snow-peaked mountains at whose feet spread deep, ancient forest and the vast _Gaear Gwathluin._ He saw great mansions and a palace like carven pearl among the green. New Cuiviénen.

He was flung back as if he had run into a steel wall, felt himself rebound from a barrier which flickered with gold.

****   
_Glorfindel! Let me pass! _   


Thunder crashed and rolled through the mountains as his power flashed out. He hurled himself forward, was again repulsed. Glorfindel felt his wrath. He was not to be permitted to enter the Elf haven.

A vein of blood-red lightning blasted into the mountains and the air shattered. Then, like a shooting star Vanimórë slashed the sky, far, far north, to Mordor.

The grumbling volcano roared into life. Vanimórë was magma, fire as it crept in glowing snakes down the slopes of Orodruin, his rage as red and as undirected.

He came to himself a long while later, found himself sitting upon a bolder of black basalt. Turning his head, he looked south.

_I cannot have thee._ He rose. _I have always said it. So why do I feel such jealousy?_

He knew. He knew exactly. At the beginning of his freedom, he had denied they could be together as lovers, yet hoped. The years went by, a brush, an eye-blink, no time at all, and the more he traveled with Elgalad the more he knew he was unworthy, the more he _wanted._ He wanted too much. He would always want too much.

_I would be just like her. Ungoliant, sucking everything out of him..._

He could not enter New Cuiviénen. And now that he was calmer he knew why. He could not bring destruction to the Elves.

_Who was it? _ His fingers clenched in his hair and he laughed, a terrible sound — and two other voices joined with his.

He stepped into blackness and vanished to Tanith.

~~~

Khanad lowered his sword. Ceremonial it might be, but he was soldier enough to ensure its blade was deadly sharp.   
''Gods.'' He found his voice. ''They said you would come back. Where were you?''

''I had to go far, to fight her.'' More Vanimórë did not say, of the bargain he had struck, of the passion which had driven him to fight back. He looked at the water clock. ''Thy coronation was this day,'' he stated and then, in a different tone: ''I would like wine.''

Khanad went to a table and poured, his grey eyes going over the tall figure. _ He is Power..._ He said bluntly: ''If you wished to take the throne, I could not stop you.''

A humorless smile curled Vanimórë's mouth. He drank, and the taste brought back more of his physical form, a greater sense of reality, of life.  
''I have committed regicide before. But not this time.'' He raised a brow. ''I sang the song that Taraluk wanted to hear, yet the words were true. I know war, I know armies. Thy father long wanted Mumak. Thou wert there when I said I could take it.''

Khanad leaned back against the table. ''Yes I was there. Let me think. Give me a moment.'' He ran a hand over his face. ''The golden one, he said you are his opposite. if he is light then, are you darkness? are you as Sauron was?''

Something flickered briefly in the purple eyes.  
''I am his son.''

Khanad went perfectly still.  
''Sauron's son?'' He made an odd sound which was as involuntary as a sneeze but was more a choke of incredulous, mirthless laughter.

''My mother was Elven.'' The wide shoulders shrugged. ''I am not another Dark Lord, Khanad.'' There was a flash in the words. ''Nor, I confess, am I pure and shining. Sometimes to fight evil, one needs a weapon not of Light but of Darkness.'' He drank again, refilled the goblet. ''I am not a Dark Lord, but I am not without ambition. I will build an Empire.''

''Beginning here,'' Khanad stated.

Vanimórë looked a little amused. ''I will not take thy throne. I am meant to be on Arda until the end.'' The smile in his eyes faded. ''I have time. Thou wilt keep Tanith and what I conquer for thee, but there are other lands, this world is vast.''

''I lost friends in our last border war with Mumak,'' the young king murmured. He set down his cup. ''I wanted to trust you, but it was not until we were on board the Black Ship that I truly did. Gods, you let that mad bastard rape you night after night...you could have broken his neck with one hand, killed him with a thought! Tell me this, can I trust you? And if I do not, is there anything I can do about it?''

''Yes,'' Vanimórë replied. ''And no. But I have seen how Morgoth and Sauron would rule a world, and it is not how I would. Well...actually, my father could have ruled a world well, but whether the world would have thought so is another matter.'' That smile came, glittering, charming. ''So. Wilt thou give me thine army, Khanad?''

The king took a long breath.  
''Yes,'' he said. ''I will."

Behind them the door opened, and Aiana was ushered in. She stopped in one footstep, dark eyes huge in the lamplight and went down on her knees.

"My Lord."

''Hells, some-one is actually pleased to see me.'' Vanimórë crossed to her and lifted her, kissed her hand.

''Have you seen Elgalad?'' she asked.

The face above her seemed to glaze into white ice.  
''No," he said. "Not yet."

~~~

Glorfindel felt Vanimórë blaze back into the world and a smile lit his eyes for a moment, before he realized exactly how and why Sauron's son had returned.  
He could have stepped in and prevented Elgalad's seduction but he had not. It was not his duty to interfere and more, he had not the right. He thought back to Fëanor's seductive onslaught long ago. It had marked him, and he had not been able to fight it. How could Elgalad have resisted? He had not even wanted to. And Fëanor had had acted both from desire and for a reason, which had unleashed a Vala's fury on him once again.

With a curse, Glorfindel slammed his strength into protecting New Cuiviénen. Unprepared, Vanimórë crashed into it and was repelled. His wrath shattered the sky into thunder.

__   
**Glorfindel ! Let me pass !**   


Thunder echoed from the mountain peaks and lightning flared, splitting the sky in forks of red.

_ Do not be a fool. Cool off, and then I will speak to thee. _

No reply came. The storm died but he could still feel the conflagration of rage on the edges of his mind.

Legolas entered the room. He had been outside for his long hair was sleek with the sudden downpour.  
“ Was that – Vanimórë? I thought I heard...felt him...”

Glorfindel turned, nodded, stepped across to him. "He is free, but – " He drew his fingers through the pale wet hair. "Elgalad found solace with another this evening." He watched the bright eyes widen. "I could have prevented it, but I did not. It might have been the only thing which could force Vanimórë out of the Dark. I think it was more than he could encompass."

"Who was it?" Legolas asked.

"Maglor – and Fëanor."

"Fëanor." By Legolas' expression, Glorfindel saw that this, at least, did not greatly surprise him. He said, “He had his reasons. But he plays a dangerous game. I need to speak with Vanimórë. He wanted to enter, I would not permit it in his mood."

"I can quite see why," Legolas said a little wryly, and Glorfindel smiled unwillingly. Then with a _crack_ of displaced air and a flash of gold he vanished, following the emanations of Vanimórë's mind.

Mordor.

For a moment, Glorfindel's gaze rose to the volcano which belched molten rock, then it dropped to where Vanimórë sat still as carved basalt upon a bolder.

“I am glad to see thee — " he began.

Vanimórë whirled, threw himself at Glorfindel, and they tumbled over like two great cats. Glorfindel flung himself atop Vanimórë, straddling him.  
"Damn thee, _ listen!_ Why this, now?" His eyes narrowed at something in the fathomless violet ones below him, and he said, “What hast thou done? _What in the Hells hast thou done?_ I can _smell_ them within thee, the stench of Morgoth!”

Vanimórë's face, pillowed in his hair was hard, mocking as he looked up.

''Yes. I should have known what the price might be, '' he said. ~

 

~~~  



	3. Bitter Ashes

 

(Wriiten by Spiced Wine)

The hot wind was ash and smoke about them. Glorfindel rose slowly, putting out his hand to draw Vanimórë to his feet.

"Tell me." His hands closed firmly on the taut shoulders.

''Sauron spoke to me, in the Void. All my life, all my cursed _life_ I fought against him, and before him, Morgoth. I would not break for them, I _despised _ them. I thought I was strong, I was even proud of what I was — and that was exactly what they wanted me to be." Vanimórë laughed suddenly, bitterly. "I am supposed to aid Morgoth in returning over the Walls of Night at the end, prepare Arda for his final conquest. Is that not ironic? I stopped struggling against the Dark. I would remain in the Void rather than help Morgoth Bauglir!" The overwhelming sorrow in his eyes was banished by a tide of fury. Glorfindel stared at him.

_ Hells, it must be true, it would explain so much about him._

''I bade Elgalad farewell, and my damned father _knew,_ as Morgoth knew, that Elgalad was the one thing which would make me fight.'' He drew away, whirled on one foot. "I had no choice. I was not ancient enough to fight Ungoliant, I did not, as they said, go back far enough; not even as a god do I have the history to battle and defeat Primeval Night. But _they_ go back that far, I permitted them to enter my soul. Now I have to restrain them, control them..." He snapped around. "_Who was it?_ I cannot see into thy haven; more than thy power is keeping me out. Who was it?"

"If thou canst not see there is a reason," Glorfindel said, as he thought furiously about the implications of these revelations.  
_ Holy Eru, Morgoth and Sauron are within him..._ But this was Vanimórë, and it was Vanimórë he addressed, or so he hoped.  
"Why art thou so enraged? Why now?"

The smile was dangerous as a blade. ''Because I am a fool, and a jealous bastard. Only my love for Elgalad prevents me from falling into the pit which my father and Melkor dug and laid in my path!'' He strode away to stare at a slow-creeping river of lava, his tall outline limned with flame. "I kept him by me in Tanith. If I needed any proof that he is too good for me, I found it there. I saw what ravenous hunger can do, Glorfindel. I saw it on the island. I truly cannot possess him. And I am like to go mad."

_ Morgoth and Sauron are within him and he is jealous. _  
That in itself was reassuring.

"Thou art not Ungoliant, Vanimórë."

"My hunger could kill as easily as hers." His head whipped around. "Thou shouldst understand jealousy, Glorfindel. He went from me into some-one else's arms. Why does that enrage me so, when I have seen it before? Because I have waited too damn long!" _And I cannot afford him. I would take too much. And I love him too much._  
_Love..._  
The presences within his mind mocked him for that weakness, for wanting, deep within his secret soul, some-one who would love him, no matter that he was Sauron's son.

He turned and stepped across to Glorfindel and in a mercurial shift of mood, locked his hands about the slender hips and jerked the other against his chest.

''Wouldst thou aid me again?" The whisper melted into a kiss. Tendrils of fire snaked through his hair, and the voices faded, barred behind his desire.

''Elgalad is mine, and I need him with me; without his love there is nothing preventing my fall. But we both know what I would do to him."

The kiss awakening fires within Glorfindel, yet he could see the Darkness behind the violet eyes. Sauron and Morgoth crouched there waiting.

"Whom would I be making love with, Vanimórë?" The question was deliberately harsh. "Thou? Or those within thee?" Their mouths met again and hunger thudded in his loins. He thought of Legolas. He could not give Vanimórë what he desired, but when one was Power, there were other ways to share pleasure...

"With me, Golden One, always me." Vanimórë drew away, smiling. "In Tanith then?" He quirked a brow, blew a kiss and melted into fire.

 

 

~~~

 

 

Night lay over Tanith. Stars were brilliant over the sea, the quiet green hills, and the most _un_quiet city, which was still celebrating the ascension of its new King.

_Tanith will be the sword, and mine will be the hand that wields it. _

_Thou art what thou art, my son. Thou canst not help but to want more, to bring rule and order to this world. _

It was in some ways worse than a violation, to feel another mind in ones own, yet he had always known it until Sauron had been finally destroyed. His own strength had not been enough to hide from his father's mind, from Morgoth's before him. To experience it again, after so short a time of freedom was abhorrent. He could have choked on hatred, save for that he was not only Sauron's son now. He was a god and he knew that it was _his_ choice to hearken to them, let them influence him. They said his destiny was foretold, but he did not believe that. There was _always_ a choice.

The most effective way for him to bar them from his consciousness, was it seemed, the very emotions which had lent him the rage to fight his way from the Dark: desire, passion, love. And so he filled his mind with those feelings, until the dark presences receded. But there was a danger inherent in this, for the more he thought, imagined and remembered, the more he burned.

_ I cannot give thee what thou dost want, but I will give thee_ this. _ Come, share with me._  
Glorfindel touched his fingers, withdrew into solar gold and Vanimórë blazed in dark and resplendent isolation. In the deeps of space a burning sun exploded. ~

 

 

~~~


	4. In Your Arms This Night

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
**Tanith and Belegaer, en route to Dol Amroth **

They remained together upon the deck of the ship watching as Tanith receded and the music of its liberation grew fainter. At last there was no sound but the gentle lapping of the waves against the ship's hull and the cry of gulls which wheeled in the air above them.

The handsome vessel was the former emir's personal ship, and Khanad had insisted that they be sailed home in her. For herself, Anwyn was grateful, but she would have been happy to float to Dol Amroth in a barrel if had meant going home.

Even as the sound of the city faded, Anwyn could not help but feel a touch of contentment that in some way, though she choose not do dwell upon the _how,_ she and her husband would leave a place where a veil of fear had been lifted and forever cast away. Khanad would rule for many peaceful years, she hoped.

She seemed to have dwelt in Tanith for an eternity, and now it felt a little strange to be journeying back to the familiar. In an odd way, she had almost become used to slavery and fear.

Dusk fell quietly, and the sea was calm. They had already sailed for some hours; already Anwyn felt cramped and stifled upon the ship and weeks of sailing still lay before them. She forced her thoughts ahead to the rolling green lands of Dol Amroth. It was midsummer now and the orchards would be filled with fruit growing heavy upon trees. The foals of the spring would be wandering further from their dam’s and would be stronger and sure footed, no longer the fuzzy spindle legged creatures she had left.

She felt an uncomfortable lump rise and catch in her throat. She could not help but wonder what else had changed in her absence. There would be a great many questions, and she did not feel ready to answer them all.

She glanced sidelong at Elphir. He leaned upon the rail, staring out to sea as though studying something in the distance that was beyond her sight. Hooking her fingers around the polished rail, Anwyn leaned back slightly, felt the uprush of sea wind, and Elphir looked at her. With a wordless gesture she straightened, titled her head, and walked in the direction of the cabins. Below decks, the ship boasted several cabins for guests, while the crew of the ship slept in hammocks below.

Their chambers were small compared to her rooms in Tanith, but were beautifully appointed with a bed, a small desk and chairs bolted to the floor. She needed little more. Khanad had given her fresh gowns for the journey home, and also attired Elphir so that he might return to his own lands looking the prince he was. Both had been grateful, but the clothes were rich and it was warm in the cabin, and Anwyn began to rid herself of some of the layers.

The air was close not only with the warmth of the south, but with the questions which had so far gone unasked between herself and Elphir. She slowly removed one of the scarves, running her fingers over the colorful glass beads. Elphir said nothing, but she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her, and she slowly lifted her head and met his eyes. They had not been truly alone until now, and had become accustomed to the knowledge that their were spies all about. She had said very little to her husband at all, for as much as she might wish to, keeping her own counsel had become instinctive.

“Say it.” The words held the hard edge of challenge, though she had not intended for them to sound cold. Now in the privacy of these chambers, walls between them crumbled, and Anwyn saw the look of hurt and dread in Elphir’s eyes. It struck her like a blow, and her shoulders sagged slightly

“I did not betray you, Elphir.” she said more softly, and her eyes lowered. Even as she spoke she felt the touch of shame which had become all too familiar to her.

“I was told in the days before his death that the Emir was to take a queen.” Elphir’s tone did not waver, it was strong and certain as ever, and Anwyn swallowed, her fingers smoothing the scarf she had folded more out of distraction than need.  
“Would you tell me more of it?”  
Elphir knew his wife well. When her eyes dropped and she fell quiet, he was being shut out. The memory of his wife throwing herself into the arms of another man, a despotic madman at that, had not ceased to plague his thoughts.  
“I know a little, but I would hear it from you.”

“There were some things that happened in Tanith, that I believe should best stay there,” Anwyn answered at length, lifting her head as she spoke.

“No, Anwyn!” Elphir replied firmly. “I shall not have this between us! You trust me do you not?”

“Yes!” Anwyn replied tersely as she shifted her weight. She was growing uncomfortable, she felt cornered, he knew. Again her gaze moved away from his.  
“I was not ever wed to that beast, Even if I were, it would not have been a true marriage but a mockery! A lie!” she managed at last.

“It did not take you long to gain such close favor with one as powerful as the emir.”

The words hurt her. Her grey eyes were wounded.

“It was not like that! You do not understand!” She wrapped her arms about herself. Elphir possessed a keen mind and it was not surprising that he struck at the heart of the matter. “I was sold at first as a Slave to his son.”

“Khanad?” Elphir flashed. “You were bought as a concubine for him?” The question was incredulous, yet she could not lie and slowly nodded. Then her head rose.  
“Khanad did not...use me,” she quickly added seeing the look of horror and disgust upon her husbands handsome face.  
“Please Elphir, Let us not talk of this now…” She reached out to touch his arm, but he moved away from her, and she jerked back her hand as though she had been burned. It was difficult for him, she understood. It was still difficult for her and she had months to think upon what had happened, to come to the slow realization that she could have done nothing differently. She saw that Elphir would not allow it to rest, and she braced herself to relive what happened once more.

“What else?”

Anwyn drew a deep breath that caught in her throat, suddenly the warm cabin felt distant and she was chilled.

“Did you lie with him?”

Her eyes snapped upwards.  
“What?” she exclaimed sharply, her expression betraying her surprise. “I already told you...”

“Did you lie with _the emir?_” Elphir elaborated the question. “I saw you with him, at the arena. You threw yourself at him, and he touched you, and you…Knelt at his feet...” He looked away, his mouth twisting as though he had just drank of a very bitter brew.

Pain erupted into anger, which coursed through her veins hotly.  
“Do you accuse me of betraying you, Elphir?” Fury was a weight in her chest, burning a hole there. It was the rock which choked the stream and closed all other clear thought to her.

Elphir did not answer.

Color tainted Anwyn’s pale cheeks and hot tears gathered in her eyes.  
“Do you think I would lay with one so cruel? Give myself to something so foul? **NO!**” she screamed, her fingers working their way into tight fists by her side, “He….hurt me, he _raped_ me!” Tear’s left glistening trails down her cheeks. She had though there could no greater pain, but the accusation from one whom she loved, who she trusted so completely, was a like a spear through her heart. It would have come to light eventually, but she had not intended to tell him like this.

“I have _never_ betrayed you, how could you not know this?” The words were difficult, each one torn painfully from her throat and as Elphir moved towards her, it was now Anwyn who flung away. She could not stand the thought of being touched now, not by anyone.  
“You cannot possibly know how terrible it is to be touched by some-one like him, to feel tainted by them, to have them _inside_ you!” Anwyn’s voice cracked at this, her shoulders heaved with disgust.  
“Get out!” The words seemed to come from another as she spoke, but she felt a moment’s clarity and she meant it, “Remove yourself from my sight!” She trembled. This was madness - for so long she had desired to lay eyes upon Elphir, to feel him near and now she could not stand the sight of him nor suffer his presence.

“Anwyn…” Even the soft caress of the words, the gentle way in which he spoke her name was infuriating to her. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head  
“Get out!” she screamed, leaving her throat feeling raw, and sore.

There was silence for a long moment, and then the door slammed hard against its hinges. A strange calm settled upon the air which had moments before been filled with terrible tension. Anwyn took in a sobbing breath and raised a hand to cover her mouth. Doubling over she slowly sunk down to the floor, her fingers curled against the colorful threads of the woven rug.

It had been sheer foolishness to think that once she was reunited with Elphir, all would be well, that she would feel whole once more. Nothing could truly return to the way it had been. Now she merely felt empty, left with a wound that had been torn open once again. She had so badly wanted Elphir to simply understand, not demand of her what she was not prepared to give, not now and perhaps not ever.

She knew that what the eyes saw could at times contend fiercely with what the heart knew. She had drawn comfort from the fact that Elphir knew her heart as she knew his, knew she would never betray his trust in her, and she was horrified and enraged that he would question her loyalty.

For a time she allowed herself to weep, though she knew it would not accomplish anything save the washing of poison from a wound. But it was a long needed outpouring of all she had held within, and when her eyes had at last dried she felt blank and worn with drowsiness. With some effort she lifted herself and fell into the bed. Exhaustion had taken it’s toll on her, and the soft satin of the sheet dried her tears as she was drifted willingly towards into deep sleep.

She awoke foggy-minded some hours later, or so she imagined from the light, and knew she had been alone the entire time. She was still sprawled atop the covers of the bed, not beneath them and as her fingers reached out and lightly skimmed across the cloth it was cool to her touch; it had not been disturbed. Now that her blood had cooled, she recalled what had passed, how she had sent Elphir away. She felt another flare of anger. He should have believed her!

Sitting upwards she brushed her hair away from her eyes and listened.

_Nothing_

There was a sudden knock against the door which caused her heart to leap into her throat.  
“Come!” she cried, and one of the crew entered, a young man of perhaps eighteen summers, who carried a sealed bottle of wine and a single glass. He bowed and set both down upon the table, before hurrying out. Anwyn starred for a long moment, one glass! That seemed entirely too presumptive!

All the same she rose, broke the wax seal of the bottle, steadying the glass with one hand while pouring with the other. The wine was good, light and fruity as was her preference, and she suspected for a moment the selection and delivery was hardly a coincidence. She slowly sipped, savoring it, for it drew her thoughts to happier times and distant lands where fruit grew heavy and ripe upon the branches.

Setting the empty glass down she felt better prepared to meet the inevitable, and she drew the door open and stepped out into the night. The wind had picked up, and the sails were filled as the ship glided easily over the dark waters. Her hair was whipped wildly, there was the constant snap of the heavy canvas sails above her, and the sudden chill pricked her skin. A storm was coming, she could smell it, _feel_ it upon the air which was charged with power.

She was about to return to her cabin when something caught the corner of her eye, and she turned. At the front of the ship Elphir stood, facing the oncoming storm and his arms were folded behind his back, his sable hair whipped backwards in the wind. Either he was not aware of here there or he choose not to acknowledge her. Either way he did not turn.

For a moment she considered calling to him but held back, feeling another ripple of anger rise in her chest. Her husband stood straight and proud, easy with the constant roll of the ship beneath as it raced over the waves. Anwyn saw the tension written in the rigidity of his broad shoulders, and part of her longed to go to him, touch him and somehow ease it away.

_Curse your stubborn pride!_ Anwyn silently called, though the irony of this was lost upon her. She turned away and climbed back down to the cabin, knowing that, in all fairness, she had ordered him from her sight. Sinking back into the bed she stared upwards, tracing the swirling grain of the wood with her eyes until her sight grew strained, and she shut her eyes to ease it, feeling her mind called once more towards rest.

The ship lunged so suddenly that Anwyn was nearly thrown from the bed. The ship gave another hard jolt and she sat up, casting about, glancing to the door and then down to where the wood beneath was darkening with water. The lanterns suspended from their gold chains swayed dangerously from side to side and Anwyn gained her feet, carefully ducking beneath them.

Dragging the door open she was immediately met with an inward rush of water which ran across her bare feet. It was so cold it that a shiver ran the entire length of her back, and she gritted her teeth as she pulled her way up the steps. Thunder rumbled overhead and rain fell heavily, large drops struck her and water beaded in her eyelashes even as she blinked it away.

The ship was running before the storm like a child's wooden toy. Thunder crashed again, nearer this time and Anwyn could glimpse high waves capped with white foam. The storm turned what had before been a glass-calm sea into churning, violent waters.

Lightening lit the night sky over head, strange fractured light which contrasted against the pitch black for a moment before fading and several moments later another slam of thunder followed.  
Even as the rain drove down upon her, Anwyn stood utterly transfixed by the skies above. It was a sight so wildly beautiful that it stole her breath. She could not bring herself to look away from it, the brilliant show of power which played itself before her, the lightening the face and the thunder the voice of the storm.

At times the waves rose above the sides of the ships and water poured over the side, rolling across the deck in shallow waves. The ship bucked violently, but Anwyn stood against the movement, one did not ride horses for so many years without the ability to stand firm and she felt rooted to the wood.

Arm’s locked about her waist and lifted her, and she could only shout into the howling wind in surprise and protest as she was forcibly carried backwards.  
“...and just because you can doesn’t mean you must!” She had just finished as the door was closed behind her blocking out the scream of the wind, and she spun about to face Elphir, taking a step back from him,angrily pushing a damp lock of hair from her eyes.

“What were you seeking to do?” The Prince demanded, “Be swept overboard?”

“There was no such danger,” she retorted, for she had not for a moment thought a wave so great would arise that it could sweep her away into the sea.

For a long moment they regarded each other. Both were dripping wet; Anwyn’s hair clung about her like an intricate golden web while Elphir’s clothes were leaving wet mark’s upon the purple rug. She folded her arms across her chest, her expression shuttered, although she did not wish to send Elphir away again and she shivered. She had been so intent on looking at the storm she had momentarily forgotten the cold.

Wordlessly they began to undress and shed their wet clothes.

“I was wrong to doubt you,” Elphir began as he unlaced his tunic, and Anwyn gave a small, quite unbecoming, snort as she combed her fingers through her wet hair, wringing out the excess water.

“Please forgive me.” The tone was genuine, each word deep with sincerity, but she was not prepared to be so easily won over, and her mouth remained bent downwards. The doeskin vest, heavy with rain, fell to the ground at Elphir’s feet, and he bent to remove his left boot, then his right. In the true fashion of most men he allowed these to simply fall about him, before straightening and facing his wife.

“Look at me” he said softly.

Part of Anwyn wanted to remain angry with him. A greater part of her could not stand it another moment; hate and anger had held domain in her heart for too long these past months. She did not wish to hold to it any longer. Her downcast eyes slowly lifted, fully taking in her husband. The way the thin white shirt clung to his chest, his dark nipples clearly outlined against the light fabric, caused something to stir within her, which she quickly fought to trample down.

“I have never betrayed you,” she managed at last. She had been tempted, but she had not submitted, though it had been difficult, and so for Elphir to question her, even for a moment, hurt more than she could have possibly imagined. She looked into his eyes, willed him to see the truth in her own.  
“I could not, for I love you”

“I saw you, with that…creature...” Elphir tried again, choosing his words carefully and Anwyn nodded her understanding.

“It was nothing! It _meant_ nothing! It was to save you! Elphir, you fought well, too well, with far greater skill than any slave should possess. I saw how he looked at you, and I knew it could not possibly bode well! I _needed_ to distract him from you!”  
She colored even as she felt bile rise in her throat at the memory, kissing the emir was not something she wished to recall; he had even tasted foul and lecherous.  
“You have always protected me, is it wrong that I would do the same for you?”

Elphir was silent for a long moment, studying her face, before a small smile touched his lips.  
“It is not wrong,” he agreed running a hand through his hair and Anwyn’s pale eyes flashed an unspoken challenge to him. She still felt raw at his doubt of her, though separated for long, kept as he had been, perhaps she could be moved to forgive him a moments foolishness. The journey before them would be long and it seemed wrong - ridiculous - to prolong it by dwelling upon anger and hurt.

She shrugged from the gown, letting it drop about her feet before stepping away and running her hands down her arms. She was chilled, but as she looked up and saw Elphir’s eyes on her, the chill quickly turned to a flush of warmth. It was a strong sensation that caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright, a heat that began in her chest and fanned outwards.

For a moment she was hesitant. It had been so long, but the desire did not fade, it grew sharper, so that she felt every drop rain that dripped from her hair, down her back, across her buttocks.

She raised her hands, her eyes never leaving Elphir’s as she drew her long hair back. It had fallen forward like a heavy cloak over her, and now she slowly revealed herself to him. She her hands slip from her hair, drew her fingers across her lips and tasted the water, slowly licking the moisture from each finger before allowing them to roam lightly across her cheek, down her throat and across her breasts, the nipples already standing proudly at attention.

Anwyn could see Elphir’s awakening arousal and her own eyes were dark with desire. It would be cruel now, to tempt and tease him yet she had waited so long for this, she did not wish to rush. The fresh, clean scent of the rain clung to them both and Anwyn closed the space between them, reaching out a hand to touch her husband's cheek, even as she kissed him. She smiled against his lips, deepened the kiss and felt no disgust, no shame. Her long fingers wove themselves into his dark hair.

They broke the kiss as Anwyn’s agile fingers worked to unloosen the ties of his shirt, and a small growl of frustration rose in her throat as she encountered a particularly difficult knot. Abandoning this she slipped his shirt over his head, cast it aside and Elphir quickly rid himself of his leggings.

Anwyn kissed and licked away the bead’s of moisture from Elphir’s chest, slowly venturing further. He drew her back against him, running his hand across her chest and stomach before bending her over the bed. She gave a momentary start of alarm as she felt his hardness press against the cleft of her buttocks, but then his damp hair fell across upon the sensitive flesh of her back and he lavished kisses upon her as she writhed beneath him.

His hands ran across her rear and feeling perhaps only the briefest flash of surprise at her own aching wantonness she spread her legs, aching to feel him within her once more.

Strong hands turned her upon her back so that she could look into the eyes which shone brightly once more, and he kissed her. She drew away slightly.

“Do you want me?” she murmured, her warm breath mingling with his own.

“Yes,” Elphir whispered, and she sat up, following as though they were bound by some unseen string.

“Then take me, claim me as your own once more!” she breathed “I want this.”

Elphir hand slid along her thigh, grasping one leg and drawing it against his hip and up as he thrust into her. Anwyn threw back her head, back arching. She felt so wholly possessed yet this was not accompanied by the horrible sensation of shame and sickness, only wonderful delight and pleasure.

Together they moved, even as the ship around them continued to battle the waves. They moved in an a most intimate dance as their bodies were parted, joined once more and them tumbled back into the bed as they sought deeper depths to their pleasure, the sheets damp with both rain and sweat. As a particularly large wave struck the ship Anwyn was cast back, her head colliding with the wooden headboard and she had lain stunned for a brief moment before laughing and crawling back to Elphir. The movements of the ship merely added another level of challenge to their already wild coupling.

Both sought to draw out their pleasure for as long as they might but soon it became too great. Anwyn arched her back, her hands moving across her husband’s back as he spent within her and slowly they fell back into the rumpled sheets.

“Do not doubt me again,” she murmured drowsily against the warm flesh of Elphir’s chest as they lay together, their twinned heartbeats slowing. She stretched out languorously. Every breath and every passing moment took them further from Tanith and towards their home. It seemed the final affirmation between them that it was something only they could share, even in the midst’s of a wild storm.

A long moment passed and there was no answer. Anwyn rose upon her elbow’s and looked upon Elphir who merely feigned sleep and before she could react he grabbed her and tumbled onto the bed once more, kissing her.

“Never,” he murmured as he drew away, though Anwyn still glimpsed a lingering hurt in his eyes. It was fainter now but still it was there and she gently touched his cheek, there were scar’s from his captivity in Tanith that would not so easily be healed as those of his body. She struggled with this, fought to understand what had happened. They had lost themselves for a time, done what they had to to ensure their survival. Elphir had slain innocent men merely to emerge from the games. Anwyn had killed a man who would have killed her. She had to hold to that knowledge when the memory of Taraluk's death returned to haunt her.

So many unspoken words filled the narrow space between them now. Months spent in doubt and fear would not be so easily soothed. Even as the storm upon the sea gradually began to subside, the storm of uncertainty and doubt them both had only just been awoken. ~

~~~

 

 


	5. Too Fell, Too Fey

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ When the preternatural storm broke over New Cuiviénen Fëanor, in his forge, laughed to himself. He knew what caused the violence. As his tool etched the runes into the blade of the sword, the smile still lingered, as if he savored a fine wine.

"Dost thou think I merely used him?" he had asked Maglor, after Elgalad had left.  
"He needed it. He wanted it. I would take none who are unwilling to my bed. Elgalad loves Vanimórë, I know that. But he hungers." He drew his fingers down Maglor's throat, resting them on the hectic pulse. "And do not think I took _thee_ because it pleases me to break any Law or taboo. Thou hast lived in the past too long, been alone too long. We _all_ live with memories; thine own on Middle-earth are longer than any of ours. But thou doth _not live!_ Find thy _passion,_ Maglor." His kiss then, had been a father's, not the wild lover of a short time before, yet Maglor felt his flesh blaze.

''It is wrong to want thee, to want..." He tore himself away, biting his lip hard. He had almost spoken of Vanimórë's seduction of him. His father must never know of that. Maglor was not sure of his reaction, or how it would manifest itself.

''I loose patience, get hence," Fëanor flashed. ''Thou hast still to embrace what thou art with all thy soul.'' His voice dropped to fire-brushed velvet. ''When thou art honest with thyself, and have shed thy burdens of guilt, then thou wilt truly have begun a new life here. Blame me, I seduced thee and I? – I have no regrets.''

~~~

Elgalad, in the deep woods, came to his feet, balancing on a branch, as the sky echoed with red light and thunder. A storm of wind swept the trees like the roar of sea surf. It streamed in his hair, and he _ knew _ that Vanimórë caused this, he felt his anger like heat upon his skin.

He had left the palace throbbing with the aftermath of ecstasy. Inner turmoil sent him to seek the solace of the trees.

As he curled up in a bower of leaves, he both rejoiced Vanimórë was free and chastised himself for permitting, even encouraging, his seduction. For he had. It was not only grief and loneliness that had driven him this night. He had fallen willingly, eagerly, into Fëanor and Maglor's embraces. Even the memory was enough to drench him once again in the thrill, and the indescribable pleasure. 

_ Vanimórë,_ he cried out, into the gale, the rain that followed, feeling nothing save a red-black rage. 

The rain was cold against his hot flesh. He did not know enough of Fëanor to understand that the High King had purposed his seduction from the beginning. It had been Maglor at first, who Elgalad had turned to, feeling the sympathy in him, (or perhaps it was that Vanimórë had made love to Maglor, long ago. Was that it?) and then he had given himself up to lust, to the silken fall of hair against his stomach and loins as Maglor knelt before him, to Fëanor's burning touch, so similar to Vanimórë's. Elgalad's mind and body both had willingly participated in the seduction of all his senses. And Vanimórë had felt it.

_He is free, then. He is free!_

~~~

''Such games of powers are not for us,'' Khanad had said earlier that evening, speaking to Aiana. ''Yet I trust him now. I have to. Come. I should not have sent for you, it has been a long day and you look tired.''

She was indeed weary, and would have soon slept had the servant not come, but at the same time, was relieved Khanad had sent for her.

''My lord, I am your servant...''

''Never say that,'' he said quickly. ''I need you.''

''But not to marry.'' Her response was pragmatic. ''I know this. I know you have a duty to Tanith.''

Khanad looked at her a long moment and then bent his head in agreement.  
''I was betrothed when I was six,'' he said. ''to one of the Sultan of Mumakan's daughters – before we declared war on them, that was. Yes, I do have a duty, but I will keep you as my only woman. I will not maintain a seraglio.'' A faint flush suffused his cheeks. ''I was never very lucky with the women I chose. Some carried my children, and they all died.'' It was not so unusual for babies to die, but he had felt that in some way it was his fault, or the women were unwilling, and had sickened.

Aiana vowed then and there never to reveal what Gthar had told her about Khanad's children. Tenderness swept her. Though he was the king, and she born a servant, she wanted to smooth back his hair, kiss the trouble from his face as if he were a boy.

''I will take Lord Vanimórë's advice in the matter of the seraglio," Khanad said. "He gave dowries to the women so that they might marry if they wished, and if not, he sent them to private palaces where they could be free.''

''I wondered why you did not put me in the women's quarters,'' she murmured, and he smiled.

''I want you near me. And whatever I have to do, I will not turn you away. You have my heart.''

At those words, and the kiss that followed them, her own swelled and burst in a sparkle of tears on her cheeks.

''Why do you cry?'' he asked softly.

''Because I love you, Sire, and because...I am carrying your child.''

He stared at her and then his eyes fell to her stomach.  
''A child? How long have you known?"

"I have felt it might be so for a sennight. Lord Gthar knew. He thought...you would be pleased.''

''Gods... _pleased_...?'' He took her face in his hands. ''Then it was when we were imprisoned?''

She nodded.

''Then two blessings came out of that,'' Khanad said. ''You and our child.'' And he drew her into his arms.

Later, while she rested, he walked to the balcony.

Far inland, lightning flickered over the hills. Distant muted thunder sounded like the approach of an advancing army. A faint breeze touched his bare chest, ran its fingers through his hair. He watched the play of light from sky to earth, listened to the drumming on the edge of hearing.

''What is it, my lord?'' Aiana asked behind him. He reached out and drew her close.

''There is a storm coming,'' he said.

~~~

It was dawn when Glorfindel returned to New Ciuviénen, and walked from his villa. At the sound of hoof-beats he waited and raised a hand as Tindómion came into view.

"I needed to speak to thee."

"And I need to speak to thee." Glorfindel laid a hand on his shoulder. "I need thee to know what may happen. Thy father and grandsire were with Elgalad yesterday."

''I do not believe it.'' The Fëanorion stated flatly, and then staring at the other: "Very well. I believe it. Hells."

"Elgalad was vulnerable and hungry."

"That was the storm, Vanimórë's anger? I felt it was unnatural..." Tindómion turned back to his horse. "I need to see father."

"He feels compunction, Istelion. Do not make it worse."

"Does my grandsire likewise feel compunction?" At Glorfindel's expression he cursed vividly. "No, of course not."

They rode to the palace, left their mounts and strode toward the great colonnade which fronted the lawns.

''Father?'' Tindómion called and beckoned a servant.

''He has gone riding, Istelion.'' The voice was Fëanor's. He was richly, casually dressed, shirtsleeves rolled up, showing he had been at some task. ''I think he went to find Elgalad.'' There was a gloss on the High king's face, the look a great panther might wear after a kill and feast. The smoldering fires of his eyes were lazy, sated.

"Didst thou seduce Elgalad, grandsire?"

The banked flame stirred to life.  
''We pleasured him, and he needed it. Vanimórë must be made of iron to resist him. Silk and silver and honeyed wine...'' The diamond eyes moved to Glorfindel. "I can see why Legolas burns in thy blood." The throaty challenge hung between them and Glorfindel said softly, warningly:  
"Do not."

''Thou knowest not what thou hast done," Tindómion cried, and found a hand whipping out to grab the collar of his tunic, his eyes a breath away from Fëanor's furiously burning ones.

''He needed what we both gave him. I did not harm him.''

''Vanimórë will want thy head for this!''

"Yes. It worked Glorfindel, did it not?'' Fëanor lifted a brow.

"It worked."

"What in the _Hells_...?"

"Vanimórë could not get out of the Void, Istelion, not until rage gave him enough strength." Glorfindel looked at the High King, "It was the only reason I did not prevent thee."

''I acted as the spur he needed. I gave his beautiful Elgalad a time of pleasure. And he was _delicious."_ Fëanor flashed a smile and walked away.

''Thou hast made an enemy as powerful as Morgoth!'' his grandson shouted after him.

''I tremble in my boots.'' Fëanor's words were sardonic as the door closed behind him.

Tindómion ran a hand through his hair. ''I will look for them.''

Glorfindel nodded. ''Fëanor courts danger as if it were a lover to be won, but nothing else would have goaded Vanimórë so surely as the seduction of his beloved." ~

~~~


	6. A Change In The Tides

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The green lands of Dol Amroth emerged through the fine mist that sat upon the waters. The banner bearing the insignia of Khanad, King of Tanith was raised, though since it would be unknown to the observers, a smaller white banner was lifted below it to signal that the foreign vessel came peacefully.

As the ship slowly entered the great harbor, it’s sails were lowered and it eased against the dock with the faintest of bumps. Its arrival had not gone unmarked and a small group of Knights had been sent to greet it with the Harbor Master.

Amrothos, the third son of Prince Imrahil lead the group and from beneath his helm, grey eyes took in the ship. It was a well-built vessel, but a trained eye could see it was alien, and he had never seen the lion's head banner before.

Gull’s wheeled in the blue sky as the ramp thudded down, and Amrothos thought he heard a woman’s soft laughter from somewhere near, but his eyes were fixed upon the ship, the sailors aboard it regarding the group of Knights warily.

“Travelers to Dol Amroth, come forth!” Amrothos called, his clear voice ringing out against the still of the morning. “By the order of Prince Imrahil all ships must be searched, but you shall not be harmed, come forth!”

“Hello brother,” The tone was deep and instantly familiar to the young prince who visibly started in shock, eyes widening beneath his helm which he quickly drew off to behold the two figures descending the ramp. Elphir grinned down at his younger brother who was struck speechless. Elphir had been missing all these months and now he was here upon a foreign ship and in his arm a woman, tall and golden-haired, face alight with happiness as she looked down upon him.

“Fetch my Father, Go!” Amrothos commanded before rushing forward to greet his brother. “Elphir, I cannot believe it!” he exclaimed as he drew his brother into a fierce embrace before turning to his brother’s wife. “Lady Anwyn,” he murmured respectfully and she smiled at him.

“It is good to see you again, Amrothos.”

Disbelief was slowly sinking in.  
“Where have you been?” Amrothos demanded sharply as his gaze moved to the ship once more. “How is this possible? Where have you sailed from?”

“This is possible by the kindness of King Khanad of Tanith” Elphir answered wryly. “It would have been a truly long walk and swim home were we without it”

“Tanith?” Amrothos echoed, and it was clear that the was not familiar. Bemused, he shook his head but his relief shone through. His voice dropping, he said: “Father has not rested since you had both vanished. We have sent Knight’s as far as Gondor, and Rohan to search for you. It was a mystery. We feared for you.”

“We were kidnapped,” Elphir said grimly. “Recognized in the city and followed, I believe. It all happened so quickly.”

Amrothos nodded grimly. “The raids have lessened but we have remained vigilant. Your ship has been watched as it approached. Yet come now. We must see father, Elphir, I have truly not seen him so haunted for years, not since…” The words tapered off; something unspoken passed between the brothers and the small group of Knights parted allowing them to pass through.

It was a remarkable comfort to Anwyn to feel solid ground beneath her feet again, yet also disorienting in that there was no longer the nearly constant sway of the ship and the sense of movement. Even the very air was different. Tanith had been constant dry warmth, it was cooler here, the wind coming from the sea bringing with it the scent of brine and the long grasses and wild flowers danced upon this constant breeze.

It had been Anwyn’s wish that they walk the distance to the palace, which was not far from the port, and once Elphir had ensured that the ship be readied for it's homeward voyage, he acquiesced. The ship would wait for the inevitable letter from Prince Imrahil, the crew take some leave and the vessel be checked for soundness before it left.

There were many who stared, and then sent up cries, for Imrahil’s eldest son and his lady were known to have vanished. Now here they were walking up toward the palace as though nothing were amiss.

News of their arrival had outpaced them and Prince Imrahil approached at a gallop, the hooves of his mount churning up a cloud of dust. Flanked by several guards, he reined in sharply, and flung himself from the saddle. Grey eyes that were bright and vivid bore into them both as though the prince sought to assure himself what he saw was real. Wordlessly he drew Elphir towards him, then turned to Anwyn whom he embraced with greater gentleness.

“Where have you been all this time?” were the first words addressed directly his son, who had straightened and stood straight as a rod beneath that scrutinizing gaze. Anwyn unconsciously drew closer to Elphir’s side. “We were taken by Sea-wolves,” Elphir told his father.

“Those you had been hunting?” Imrahil demanded, and a brief silence hung upon the air.

“Yes” Elphir answered. “You disobeyed me!”

“Yes.

” Startled, Anwyn’s gaze flicked from her husbands face to that of his father.

“You deliberately disobeyed me, and you placed Anwyn in danger as well!” Imrahil rapped out. Elphir flinched slightly.

“Yes” he replied again. Imrahil regarded his son in silence for a long moment. Distantly a bird called from the gardens, it’s voice shrill and high pitched and it sliced into the silence like a blade through silk. One of the horse’s snorted and pawed at the ground impatiently.

“You have disappointed me, Elphir. Go, we shall speak more of this after you have rested and bathed.”

Anwyn, who had unwittingly placed herself directly between the two looked from one man to another, desperately trying to piece together what had just transpired.

Elphir bowed stiffly, and with the same air of dignity with which he had accepted the words of rebuke from his father, he strode away. Anwyn's expression of confusion crumpled.

‘How could you say such a thing to him? He is your son!”  
She had never seen him act this way towards Elphir and was completely taken aback; though she had been prepared for emotions to run high upon their return she now felt numb with disbelief.

“You should not say such things to him!” Imrahil had chastised his son, not her, but Anwyn felt the shame - it had rolled from Elphir so keenly that it had touched her own heart. The eyes of many were upon her, and she felt their disapproval. It was discourteous to speak with disrespect, but she could scarce contain her shock.

“You would not say such things, If you knew how bravely your son has acted, You...” She fumbled over the words, and then bit down on her lip. A flush rose in her cheeks, and she met the gaze of Imrahil directly before turning upon her heel and stalking away, their reunion cut unceremoniously short.

She could hardly see the great stone walls which rose before her. The gardens were in full bloom, but they passed as rushed swashes of color as blood rushed in her ears and her heart pounded. Vaguely she was aware of another presence, one which nearly kept step with her own stride, which was considerable; when she was angry her already long lengthened further.

At last, she abruptly halted and spun to confront the one that followed her.  
Imrahil's words to Elphir had been so harsh that she had no patience left to puzzle over them, and now the prince stood regarding her with the same stern expression. She lifted her chin to him.

“Do you doubt that I love my son?”

The question took her aback. She was thrown off guard, but the answer still leapt immediately to her lips.

“No”

“If you disagree with my words, That is your choice, but you shall not show such blatant disrespect for me before the Lords of my house, am I understood?"

Anwyn swallowed, though her expression remained stony.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “You are right. But Elphir did not deserve that. He did not deserve to be shamed _before the lords of your house._”

“Come. Walk with me for a time, Anwyn.”

The silence that stretched between them felt strained, but Imrahil did not betray any discomfort; he was quiet and appeared deeply lost in thought.

“A man shall never have the joy of watching his sons grow into men if he ever permits them to act as boys.”

“I do not understand,” Anwyn murmured, and a faint smile touched Imrahil’s lips. She felt her own expression soften. While Imrahil could never replace the one who raised her, she had come very much to view him in the same respect and fondness as one might one's own father.

“Elphir acted foolishly,” he said without preface. “I knew he pursued the sea-wolves and I feared for his safety.” Imrahil’s lips drew into a thin line. “I heard word that he was growing reckless at times and I warned him, no, I _forbade_ him to go alone near the shores. He is my heir, my son, he has a duty to his people! Yet still he went, and took you as well.”

“I do not believe he would have intentionally taken me into danger!” Anwyn quickly replied, eager to leap to her husband’s defense. Even so, she felt shaken. Elphir had told her of none of this, and she had not asked, for she disliked prying into matters that were none of her concern.

“I know he did not _intentionally_ put you in danger,” Imrahil replied, walking along beside her.  
“The attack’s had ceased. Perhaps he believed the shores safe once more, I know he would not have guided you into danger. yet it was rash.”

“I would have followed him!” Anwyn replied passionately “If I had known…I would have still followed him, It is my duty. I would have followed him even into death!”

Imrahil smiled sadly upon her. “You take up the same cry as many of your Rohirrim ancestors, Anwyn.” He reached out a hand and gently touched her arm, the very fact that she did not balk or draw away from the touch gave silent testament to her trust. “But you are young yet. One day you shall no longer say such things, for you shall see that a life is already too short, too precious to hasten towards death; it comes swiftly enough for us all.” He glanced away, so that she could not see his pained expression. “I feared that I had lost both a son and one who has become as dear to me as daughter. I pray you shall never know such grief, Anwyn. I sent word to your mother also, she waits anxiously to hear from me again.”

Anwyn moved forward, and allowed herself to be drawn into a close embrace.

“Send word once more,” she murmured. “Tell her that we have returned, and there is..._much_ to be told.” Her smooth brow furrowed as she summoned up the past months. It seemed like an old tale, and she would never have believed it had she not witnessed it for herself.

Imrahil listened, fascinated by the story Anwyn told, invoking the natural talent of the _skald_ that ran in her bloodline. She wove together a tale that was necessarily colored by her own perspectives and that ended in death of a tyrant, though she delicately tiptoed around the manner of Taraluk's death and let the tale finish with the ascension of Khanad to the throne of Tanith. As she reached these final words, Anwyn’s gut began to twist uncomfortably. She breathed deeply in effort to quell the nausea, but the urge to be sick could no longer be denied and she turned as her stomach rid itself of what little she had eaten. Imrahil was beside her, carefully brushing the hair from her face and stroking her back.

Anwyn sank to her knee’s on the cool grass, feeling oddly spent, but the color was slowly beginning to return to her cheeks. Imrahil produced a fresh cloth from his tunic which she gratefully took to wipe her mouth feeling the bite of shame.

“Be still for a moment,” Imrahil commanded sternly and Anwyn smiled weakly.

“There is nothing the matter,” she told him. “It has happened often, these past few days....I have been ill as this many times of late. It is the ship. I fear I am a woman of the green land, not the ocean.”

“Anwyn, you are no longer upon the ship,” Imrahil commented, and she paused.

“Ah, this is true,” she answered sheepishly, as the Prince helped her to rise and she brushed herself off, willing the clenching pain of her gut to ease. She tried to appear unconcerned, but she disliked these moments of sudden sickness which passed as swiftly as they came.

Imrahil regarded her carefully for a moment.  
“Are you are certain you are well?”

“I am.” The answer was immediate. The prince’s gaze was knowing.  
“Such a thing is not uncommon among women who are with child.”

Anwyn's already pale skin blanched further as realization slipped into place, and like water breaking from a dam the reason for her illness these past few days crashed down upon her.

“I wish to speak with my husband!” she said hurriedly and Imrahil inclined his head.  
“Of course, I shall speak with him this later.”

Hurriedly taking her leave of the prince, Anwyn moved through wide stone corridors that now seemed quite strange and foreign to her until she entered the large chambers that she shared with Elphir. They were empty and seemingly untouched save for the fresh flowers that had been left. Rushing past startled servants she resisted the urge to break into a run and it was not until she found herself alone in a narrower corridor that she paused, pressing her back against the wall and one hand flew over her mouth while another pressed against her stomach. She did not feel anything.

_Well, you would not, not yet,_ she thought, and tried to calm herself. She knew as little of children as duck knows of making bread - Bema, she knew more about _horses_ than children. Her mother, or the one she had called mother, had never spoken much to her of such things and Anwyn was the youngest, so there were no other babies in the household. She remembered the morning she had found blood when her monthly courses began, and her fear. This was the same fear, yet there was also a great joy, and she felt the strangest urge to laugh even as she fought back tears.

She passed her hand over her stomach again, feeling oddly vulnerable. It was growing, and so would she. Fear was slowly replaced by wonder tinged by uncertainty, and she again felt pangs of sickness which she struggled to swallow down.  
Collecting herself, she carried on down a winding staircase that lead to the armory. It seemed a strange choice, given the occasion yet Anwyn walked on, certain of what she would find. She moved nearly silently, her shadow cast across the row of swords; more weapons lay in a long wooden rack which ran the length of the chamber. They were arranged with such care that Anwyn could not help her childish notion that they merely slept upright, but were always ready, always waiting for the moment they would be called into their master’s hand and carried into battle.

Absently she reached out to touch the hilt of the sword nearest to her, the exposed steel cool against flesh which suddenly felt warm. Light wells allowed the sun to to pour in, stamping blocks of gold on wall and floor. Motes of dust slowly drifted past.

Elphir stood adjusting the straps of his breastplate. His back was to her, his face slightly turned as he tugged at a stubborn buckle, and the angular features of his face were lovingly gilded by the light.

The young prince continued to dress himself, seemingly unaware of her presence, and Anwyn was quite content to watch this ritual, fascinated by it. Every piece was inspected before being donned, as a slight overlook or lapse in attention could equal death for the warrior who wore it.  
His dark hair glistened with water. It seemed that he had had taken the time to bathe, but his wife doubted he had taken the time to eat. Tension was writ in his stance, in every movement and unable to stand the silence any longer she moved forward and pressed herself against her husband’s turned back.

“Oompf!” Was the only sound she managed as Elphir sharply turned into her clearly oblivious to her presence, and she stumbled backwards. Elphir’s eyes widened in surprise and caught her arm, although she had already righted herself.

“Anwyn? What is the matter? What are you doing sneaking about?”

“I was _not_ sneaking!” she protested, rather hurt by the accusation.

“I do not have the time to talk now,” he said dismissively, before turning his back to her and tugging on his leather gauntlets before tucking his helm beneath his arm. “I ride out with my brothers this night. I shall return at dawn.” The words were curt and even as Elphir moved to pass her Anwyn whirled to follow.

“Wait!”

Elphir paused and turned to her.

“There is something we must speak of first,” Anwyn began and Elphir shook his head.

“No, truly I must go. I have brought enough shame upon myself, I shall not neglect my duties any further and my brothers await me.”

Anwyn well understood what lay buried at the root of Elphir’s shame. It was something that he would need to unearth, and she understood well enough, but not prepared to be so summarily dismissed.  
“I must speak with you now,” she insisted. She would never keep him from his duties for a trivial matter, but what she had to say warranted a moment of his time at the very least.

Again Elphir stopped and turned. He was too innately courteous to flatly ignore a lady and too wise to ignore a request from his wife, but his expression showed impatience, even irritation. The words of his father rang in his ears giving further fuel to his burning shame; he had been powerless to prevent most of what had happened and if he had been wiser much of what had befallen them both could have been avoided. It was a bitter draught to take.

“I have failed you Anwyn, and I shall spend the rest of my life with this knowledge.”

“No!“

He raised a hand, silencing her.  
“Do not forgive me now, I have not yet earned it! As a Husband, I have failed to protect you and as a son I have disobeyed my father. I must prove myself deserving of his trust once more - and yours.”

“I do not need your protection!” Anwyn sputtered, veering between surprise and anger. “Elphir, I need **you** now, please listen to me!” she cried, biting back a cry of frustration.

“I must go,” Elphir said again, as though he had simply not heard her.

“I am with child!” Anwyn shouted after him, her voice carrying and the word _child_ echoed eerily off the cavernous stone corridor. Elphir turned to Anwyn who threw up her hand’s in frustration and sank against the table.

Her husbands expression might have struck her as humorous had she not been so acutely irritated with him. She folded her arm’s across her chest - a silent gesture to her husband to proceed _very_ carefully.

Slowly, Elphir smiled, and it was so warm and bright that it chased every lurking shadow from the corners of the room. Anwyn could not help but feel the flutter of her own heart within her breast for it was a smile that was reserved for her alone and one she had not seen in too long. I seemed an Age since she had his face lit by joy and she found herself swept up by him, her face pressed into his hair. She laughed while weeping tears of joy, though it was swiftly silenced as he drew away and she read the shadow of doubt in his eyes. It pained her, but she understood it.

“It is your child” she reassured him, bowing her head for a moment to wipe at her eyes before raising them again. “Taraluk could sire no children. Many people knew it, but dared say nothing.”

Elphir slowly nodded, and his lips brushed against hers before drawing away and gently kissing her brow.

“Is now the time Anwyn? To bring forth children?” he asked her and her forehead furrowed at the question.  
“I do not believe we have a say in that any longer,” she quirked a brow at him. “And the child shall not come this very night,” she added with a sigh. She was growing tired. It seemed she had touched upon every emotion this day and all had taken their toll.  
“I shall not keep you from your duty,” she lifted the helm from where it had been placed and handed it to him, her fingers brushing against the soft leather of his gloves.  
“Go on,” she encouraged him with a soft smile “I shall be waiting for you.” ~

~~~


	7. An Ancient Burning

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  **An Ancient Burning.**

 

~ The forest which sprawled about the feet of the mountains was ancient; the old Wild Wood. It was the perfect place for an Elf used to a deep forest to hide — forever Maglor was beginning to think.  
But there was a great peace and beauty here. It reminded him of the Woods of Oromë in Aman, not choked and snarled with bramble and weed but open as some Noldorin-built palace. The boles of the trees were pillars; under their lifted arms small streams ran like ribbons, and flowers of palest pink and blue scattered the turf. He could ride here easily and so had not abandoned his mount, and was beginning to wish he had bought bow or hound to hunt with; he had ridden leagues. Elgalad could be anywhere.

He had to speak with him. If Maglor was shaken to his core by emotions and guilt, what Elgalad felt, having betrayed Vanimórë – and Elgalad would use that word, no matter what the truth – would surely be multiplied an hundredfold. What concerned the Fëanorion was that Elgalad might flee New Cuiviénen. If he did, Maglor was certain that Vanimórë would descend on him like an avalanche of wrath. And that alarmed him.

Far away, he heard the note of a horn.

He knew that sound and urged his stallion faster, riding through the green-gold light, until he saw ahead of him another mount. Recognizing the rider by his carriage and the war-hound which ran beside him, he called out:  
''Celegorm!''

His brother's cream-haired head turned and he reined in a little.

''Who blows the horn?'' Maglor asked.

''Curufin. I was with him. We parted,'' Celegorm replied. ''He has treed something. Come.''

Curufin had indeed treed something and although the prey was invisible, he was apparently speaking to it. His brothers exchanged a look redolent of years of familiarity and Maglor knew beyond doubt, whom Curufin taunted.

''Come down,'' he called. ''I want to thank thee for the chase, for never have I had such a fine one since Beleriand.''

''Brother — '' Celegorm began. Curufin turned, laughing.

''Ah, thou didst miss the most wondrous chase. He can run like the fleetest hart this one and all I would do is speak to him. I saw him flee from the palace this morning wearing naught but his breeches. Whomever summoned him to their chamber wasted little time.''

 

''It was our father,'' Maglor told him, and Curufin's eyes widened. ''Enough of this. I wish to speak with him.''

There was something in his elder brother's eyes Curufin did not wish to challenge. In Celegorm's too. Who said, sharply: ''He is no meat of thine. Come.'' His voice was impatient. He cast a wry smile towards Maglor. ''Cool off.''

Maglor nodded, his face still set as he dismounted, waiting until his brothers had gone, before calling, softly, ''Elgalad!''

There was no sound, not even the rustle of leaves , as Elgalad dropped lithely down. There was no sign on his face of fear, no tears. The firm, lovely mouth which he had kissed, which had joined with his so eagerly, drooped a little, but his eyes were unflinching.

''Elgalad,'' Maglor murmured, and drew him close, feeling the stiff resistance of the tall body, before it crumbled. Elgalad's arms came about him, and locked tight.

''Few can resist my father.''

''I did not want t-to resist him," Elgalad said into Maglor's throat. "But Vanimórë...I tried t-to reach out to h-him and felt nothing, only fury and th-the storm.''

''Jealousy,'' Maglor said shortly.

Slowly, Elgalad stepped back. "Jealousy, is it? He h-has made it clear he will never take m-me himself." The rush of words was bitter. ''He was gone, and I t-turned to another; that is wh-what it will seem like. And that is how it was. I wanted the both of th-thee.''

_So did I, _ Maglor thought as the dark, forbidden stirrings of desire uncoiled within him again. _What have I done, what has father done, my beautiful, deadly father._ He said: ''Would he deny thee pleasure when he himself has had lovers?''

"Maglor," Elgalad said, shaking that lovely silver head. "This h-has happened before, and when I l-lived in Mirkwood. He _w-wants_ me to find another. I w-wonder if he thinks I am not be enough for h-him.''

Maglor felt a faint smile bend one side of his mouth.  
''My father sees people as gems, Elgalad. He showed me a deep blue-black diamond and a clear one, like water and said both were beautiful. He was speaking of thee and of Vanimórë. My father found thee enough. He chose to seduce thee, and whatever his reasons, he relished it. I doubt very much that thou wouldst not be enough for Vanimórë.'' He tilted up Elgalad's chin, but long lashes still covered the pale brilliance of his eyes. ''Look at me. I wanted to comfort thee, but my own motives were not pure. I thought of... my captivity in Barad-dûr. I was dying, and accepted it, I even longed for it. I was broken, I had been too long apart from those I loved. And Vanimórë brought me back. Yes, I thought also of revenge on him at first. But only for a moment. I wanted thee. And my father wanted thee, I assure thee. He does not know what happened in Barad-dûr. I do not wish him to know. He was not motivated by revenge.''

Tremors shook through Elgalad, but he nodded, looking so infinitely desirable that Maglor thought Vanimórë must be made of adamant to resist him. Or a fool. He cupped the back of Elgalad's neck in one hand and said, ''Come, come back. It is not wise for thee to see him now. Not yet.''

After a moment, Elgalad allowed himself to be drawn forward, but he was still tense; Maglor felt it in the cords of his throat and spine.  
''Do not fear me,'' he murmured.

''I do not fear th-thee.'' Elgalad said, ''I tried to forget h-how much I wanted. And I didn not want to f-fight it.''

''Thou art touched by the fire, as I, by Vanimórë's fire and my father's,'' Maglor said. ''We are never free of it.'' He hesitated, then: "And thou didst want Vanimórë to come out of the dark. Well, he has come."

~~~

Maglor did not sleep that night. he sat beside the lake, with the wind in his hair, fingers running over the strings of his harp.

_Father...Thou wilt drive me mad. I want thee too much._

He rose. He had found his son that evening and asked him if he would watch Elgalad.

''Of course,'' Tindómion had said. "WE will go and see Legolas and Glorfindel, perhaps."

"He must not attempt to leave, to seek Vanimórë. It is too dangerous, dost thou understand?"

''I assure thee, I will not let him go anywhere,'' Tindómion replied firmly.

Maglor nodded. ''In some way, Elgalad is essential to Vanimórë. Whatever his rage now, if he killed Elgalad in anger only the One knows what would happen.''

"He would not," his son said. "But it will do Vanimórë no harm to seethe in jealousy. Perhaps it is just what he needs." He smiled. "He is a bit of a fool where Elgalad is concerned."

Now, Maglor walked to his chambers, and buckled a pack. He took no horse lest it rouse the stable servants, and struck east. Toward the mountains.

  
  
~~~

~ ''Did you manage to temper his outrage?'' Legolas asked, bringing Glorfindel's head around from where he stood with his arms folded, looking out over the waters.  
  
“ No." He reached out an arm and drew Legolas to his side. "Nor did I think I could. Fëanor seduced Elgalad. However, had he not, Vanimórë would still be trapped in the Dark. Yes, lust motivated Fëanor, something beautiful that he anted to taste, but he had other reasons for what he did. It is never simple with him."  
  
''Is Elgalad all right?"  
  
"Fëanor did not hurt him."  
  
"No, I did not think that. Elgalad has waited since the end of the War for Vanimórë to claim him," Legolas said. "I never thought Vanimórë would withhold himself this long."  
  
"Nor did I," Glorfindel said wryly. "But Vanimórë can be stubborn as an ox at times. And we have another problem."

"Another?" Legolas asked, with a touch of fatalism.  
  
“Vanimórë could not defeat Ungoliant alone. To break out of Night required both his rage and aid — from beings who have existed as long as she has. Morgoth and Sauron."  
  
"_ What? _"  
  
"Fëanor has made an enemy who is dangerous to begin with, and who now carries Morgoth within him." Glorfindel struck the marble baluster. “ He has always resisted them, now he has let them in out of jealousy. Yet I cannot see another way he could have fought his way out of the Dark. He does not know the identity of the one who took Elgalad.” He added, "Yet. I am hiding it, but so is some-one or something else."  
  
"So Morgoth _and_ Sauron are possessing Vanimórë?" Legolas demanded. Glorfindel shook his head.  
  
"Not possessing him. He is fighting them, but the One only knows how long he can. But there is something he can do to hold them at bay."  
  
"What is that?"  
  
"They seem to be confounded by his..._passions._"  
  
Legolas disengaged from his arm and faced him.  
"And you and he were lovers, long ago."  
  
"I cannot be Vanimórë's lover," Glorfindel said. "It would be a battle. We would never get anything done."  
  
With a hint of challenge, of mischief, Legolas said, "But that can be intoxicating."  
  
And Glorfindel laughed, walked with him into the bedchamber. "As we know," he said.  
~~~  
  
  
Much later, Glorfindel strode up the steps to the palace. The guards at the doors opened them, bowing low. He inclined his head, continuing on to the chambers of the high king.  
  
“Sire, Prince Glorfindel.”  
  
Fëanor gestured as Glorfindel entered.  
"Sit down." He poured from a jug of wine.  
  
"Truly, Fëanor I do not know whether to thank thee or damned well punch thee." Glorfindel took the wine and drank.  
  
"I accept thy thanks." The arrogance was deliberate and studied, but it still brought the temper into Glorfindel's eyes. "I took Elgalad yes, and he was willing. Of course Vanimórë felt it, and it gave him the impetus he needed to break out of the Dark.”  
  
“And thou hast made an enemy probably more dangerous than Morgoth Bauglir!" Glorfindel slammed the wine-cup down, the liquid sloshing up to the rim, and leaned forward on his hands.  
"It is my duty to protect those within New Cuiviénen and I would rather not spend all my time strengthening its protection against a god who wishes to tear out thy heart."  
  
Fëanor leaned forward until their faces were inches apart.  
"I cannot — and would not — take back the act.'' Rising, he came around the table, caught Glorfindel by the shoulders and with a push sent him back against the wall.  
"I do not regret _anything_ I have done, _nephew._"  
  
"I know it," Glorfindel hissed back. "And I spent all my twice-born lives wondering if I could have persuaded thee to go back for Fingolfin and his people!"  
  
"Dost thou _still_ wonder about that? We will never know, will we? Give me the Silmaril." The change of subject came without a change of tone. Slender hands slid into rippling golden hair. Despite himself, Glorfindel's head tipped back at the touch.  
  
"I need it to heal my son." Fëanor's voice was intense. "He still bears wounds, guilt that he lived when his brothers and I died."  
  
"Not for the shame he feels at thy taking him?" Glorfindel riposted.  
  
"First I am Fëanor, then I am a father, a brother, an uncle." His fingers tightened. "Maglor has not _lived!_ And I love him, yes and want him, my son, my beautiful singer. Give me the Silmaril, Glorfindel. Let it burn away his guilt and grief."  
  
"No. Once you used it to bring me back from the shores of death, but Maglor must find his healing within himself. He knows that! And the Silmaril is only part of thee."  
  
Their gazes locked like enemies, then rage burned up in Fëanor's eyes and he kissed Glorfindel like a blow.  
"The only part of me Maglor will willingly touch. I want it for him, no myself." Their glares clashed again.

"I can tell thee now it will make no difference. Maglor has to come to terms with this on his own, and thou knowest it." Glorfindel strode from the room, the high kings eyes following him like burning lamps.  
"And keep away from Legolas!" Glorfindel flung over his shoulder as he vanished.  
  
The rage died into rich amusement.  
"Are we going to argue about that again?" he called.  
  
"What hast thou done?'' His half brother's voice brought him around. Fingolfin's eyes blazed star-blue in wrath. ''I heard what he said. Tell me thou didst not take Elgalad because of Vanimórë is Sauron's son, and Sauron tormented _thy_ son. Just tell me it was not some act of revenge.''  
  
''It was not,'' Fëanor said equivocally. His face shone, flesh and bone covering a light which welled through it as white fire under alabaster.  
  
''By the Hells, thou dost have a knack of making powerful enemies!''  
  
''Elgalad wanted it. If Vanimórë could think beyond who he is, what he was, he would take Elgalad himself, the fool.''  
  
''Thy fire will scorch him,'' Fingolfin flashed, breast to breast with his brother.  
  
''He enjoyed it. And he at least has the courage to look into his soul and surrender to his desires!''  
  
''Ah, is this it then? I am a coward? What is in thee can kill...'' Fingolfin caught back the hot words as something flashed over his half brother's face.  
''Forgive me,'' he said, appalled.  
  
''I murdered my mother? Is that not what the Valar said? That I drained her of life in the womb, that I was ill-begotten? That I should never have been born?'' There was something terrifyingly flat in the words.  
  
''No.'' Just for a moment Fingolfin had glimpsed something behind the flaming facade which did not evoke desire, but pity.  
  
''I will accept the guilt of the Oath, brother. But thou wouldst say I slew my mother?''  
  
Fingolfin shook his head. ''No,'' he repeated. "I have never though that."  
  
''Then _what?_'' The word cracked like lightning from a storm-cloud.  
  
''Thou art a Balrog in the form of an Elf, I think. Middle-earth is not made for thee.''  
  
''I am what I am,'' Fëanor placed the words carefully. ''I am as Eru made me.''  
  
''The One does not _make_ thee act,'' Fingolfin snapped. ''Elgalad is part of this new balance. Thou dost have an enemy like Morgoth, and he will _kill thee_. Does it not occur to thee that I am worried?''  
  
''Will he? Will he kill me? I think not.''  
  
''Morgoth slew me.'' Fingolfin spoke through memories of pain and despair. ''And I was as filled with rage and madness as thou wert after our father was killed and the Silmarilli stolen. And I could not prevail. I died believing I had failed our people and thee."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I love thee, but I fear for thee. I would not see that burn into madness and blackness again. One like that already exists, and what wouldst thou do, what voices might thou not hearken to, if _they_ whispered to thee that thou couldst have anything, everything?''   
  
"Morgoth did, once." Fëanor smiled reminiscently. "Did I listen? No."  
  
"Just leave Elgalad be. Do not provoke Vanimórë more than thou hast. " Fingolfin's hands ran up into the tossed mane of his half-brother's ebony hair. "Yes?"  
  
He heard the intake of breath, low, amused laughter.  
''Art thou sacrificing thyself?" he teased.  
  
''I will do anything to prevent thee bringing death down upon thyself — '' His words were muffled by his brothers mouth.  
  
Fëanor's eyes were unhuman as he drew back. ''Come,'' he whispered. "Come."   
  
  
~~~   
  
  
Tindómion stirred, lifting his head as the sky paled, and watched the stars fade into the opening day. He glanced across the chamber to where Elgalad lay on a long couch. He had slept. Tindómion had not.  
  
From far away he heard harp-song. He knew it. He would always know it. It had haunted his dreams before he ever saw his father.  
He rose abruptly as he realized that this was not something audible. It was in his mind. A lay of sorrow, of tragedy.  
  
Maglor was playing the _Noldolantë, _ the Fall of the Noldor.  
  
_Father?_ he asked, troubled, and there was silence. A dawn breeze moved the rich hangings, touched Elgalad. He shifted, and his eyes focused.  
  
_Father?_ Tindómion called again, and distantly, as if he was speaking from beyond time, or very long ago, Maglor said, _Forgive me. _  
  
''_Father!_'' It rang in the room and in mind-speech. Elgalad came to his feet, his eyes questioning.  
  
_I love thee, Istelion._  
  
Tindómion flung around, pain and fear leaping into his eyes.  
  
''He has gone.'' He could not comprehend it.  
  
Running to the balcony, he vaulted over it and landed below in catlike silence. Elgalad followed him through the dawn gardens, winding through trees, leaping streams and pools to reach the center of the palace complex where he high king dwelt.  
  
Taking the private stairs up to Fëanor's chambers, Tindómion did not even knock as he burst through the outer door into the wide room. Elgalad saw him stop dead, as if he had slammed into a wall of glass.  
  
Fëanor lounged upon the wide bed. He was deliberately, lazily pouring wine from a jeweled goblet onto Fingolfin's white back. The liquid ran down in a clear stream and pooled in the hollow above his buttocks. Fëanor leaned over, drinking. Fingolfin's eyes closed in pleasure.  
  
There was something both so wickedly erotic in the scene that Tindómion felt himself burning with a furious, roused heat. Fingolfin, whose mouth had worn a sensuous smile, opened his eyes, gazed at him. Fëanor glanced up, unhurried, unconcerned.  
  
It looked like some wildly rich painting drawn on shining marble, or a sculpture capturing vivid sexuality: two magnificent Noldor, stunningly alike, posed in barbarically gorgeous attitudes. Elgalad felt heat erupt through him. Tindómion braced himself against the door-post, words forced from his constricted throat.  
''He has gone. Thou hast caused him to flee.''  
  
Fëanor came to his feet, Fingolfin joined him, their eyes fixed on him.  
  
''I heard him. He has gone!'' Tindómion lashed out with a blow that would have connected, save that it was caught in a movement faster than sight.  
  
''When?'' Fëanor demanded.  
  
''Just now, this dawn. What hast thou done?''  
  
''I am weary of being asked that,'' Fëanor said and then, abruptly: ''We ride.''  
  
''Dost thou not understand?'' Tindómion cried. ''Dost thou know _where_ he must be going? And to _ whom?_''  
  
"To whom?" The expression that struck Fëanor's face then shocked his grandson with its wild pain. Elgalad gasped. Fëanor closed his eyes, said, "He goes to Vanimórë. The only person who might help him understand his desire for me, is another man who was desired by his own father." ~  
  
~~~


	8. Unfading Desires

''Did you manage to temper his outrage?'' Legolas asked, bringing Glorfindel's head around from where he stood with his arms folded, looking out over the waters.

“ No." He reached out an arm and drew Legolas to his side. "Nor did I think I could. Fëanor seduced Elgalad. However, had he not, Vanimórë would still be trapped in the Dark. Yes, lust motivated him, but he had other reasons for what he did."

''Is Elgalad all right?"

"Fëanor did not hurt him."

"No, I did not think that. Elgalad has waited since the end of the War for Vanimórë to claim him," Legolas said. " Such continence is unnatural."

"I know," Glorfindel said wryly. "And we have another problem."

"Another?" Legolas asked, with a touch of fatalism.  
  
“Vanimórë could not defeat Ungoliant alone. To break out of Night required both his rage and aid – from beings who have existed as long as she has. Morgoth and Sauron."  
  
"_ What? _"  
  
"Fëanor has made an enemy who is dangerous to begin with, and who now carries Morgoth within him." Glorfindel struck the marble baluster. “ He has always resisted them, now he let them in out of jealous rage. Yet I cannot see another way he could have fought his way out of the Dark. He does not know the identity of the one who took Elgalad.” He added, "Yet. I am hiding it, but so is some-one or something else."  
  
"So Morgoth _and_ Sauron are possessing Vanimórë?" Legolas demanded. Glorfindel shook his head swiftly.  
  
"Not possessing him. He is fighting them, but the One only knows how long he can. But there is something he can do to hold them at bay."  
  
"What is that?"  
  
"They seem to be confounded by his..._passions._"  
  
Legolas disengaged from his arm and faced him.  
"And you and he were lovers, long ago."  
  
"I cannot be Vanimórë's lover," Glorfindel said bluntly. "It would be a battle. We would never get anything done."   
  
With a hint of challenge, of mischief, Legolas said, "But that can be intoxicating."   
  
And Glorfindel laughed, walked with him into the bedchamber. "As we know," he said.   
~~~  
  
  
Much later, Glorfindel strode up the steps to the palace. The guards at the doors opened them, bowing low. He inclined his head, continuing on to the chambers of the high king.  
  
“Sire, Prince Glorfindel.”  
  
Fëanor gestured as Glorfindel entered.  
"Sit down." He poured from a jug of wine.  
  
"Truly, Fëanor I do not know whether to thank thee or damned well punch thee." Glorfindel took the wine and drank.  
  
"I accept thy thanks." The arrogance was deliberate and studied, but it still brought the temper into Glorfindel's eyes. "I lay with a willing beauty, thereby helping his beloved to break from the everlasting Dark.”  
  
“And thou hast made an enemy probably more dangerous than Morgoth Bauglir!" Glorfindel slammed the wine-cup down, the liquid sloshing up to the rim, and leaned forward on his hands.  
"It is my duty to protect those within New Cuiviénen and I would rather not spend all my time strengthening it's protection against a god who wishes to tear out thy heart."  
  
Fëanor leaned forward until their faces were inches apart.  
"I cannot — and would not — take back the act.'' Rising, he came around the table, caught Glorfindel by the shoulders and with a push sent him back against the wall.  
"I do not regret _anything_ I have done, _nephew._"  
  
"I know it," Glorfindel hissed back. "And I spent all my twice-born lives wondering if I could have persuaded thee to go back for Fingolfin and his people!"  
  
"Dost thou _still_ wonder about that? We will never know, will we? Give me the Silmaril." The change of subject came without a change of tone. Slender hands slid into rippling golden hair. Despite himself, Glorfindel's head tipped back at the touch.  
  
"I need it to heal my son." Fëanor's voice was intense. "He still bears wound, guilt that he lived when his brothers and I died."  
  
"Oh, not for the shame he feels at thy taking him?" Glorfindel riposted.  
  
"First I am Fëanor, then I am a father, a brother, an uncle." His fingers tightened. "Maglor has not _lived!_ And I love him, yes and want him, my son, my beautiful singer. Give me the Silmaril, Glorfindel. Let it burn away his guilt and grief."  
  
"No. Once you used it to bring me back from the shores of death, but Maglor must find his healing within himself. He knows that! And the Silmaril is only part of thee."  
  
Their gazes locked like enemies, then rage burned up in Fëanor's eyes and he kissed Glorfindel like a blow.  
"The only part of me Maglor will willingly touch." Their glares clashed again.

"Thou art too. Damned. Dangerous. With or without the Silmaril." Glorfindel strode from the room, the high kings eyes following him like burning lamps.  
"And keep away from Legolas!" Glorfindel flung over his shoulder as he vanished.  
  
The rage died into rich amusement.  
"Are we going to argue about that again?" he called.   
  
"What hast thou done?'' His half brother's voice brought him around. Fingolfin's eyes blazed star-blue in wrath. ''I heard what he said. Tell me thou didst not take Elgalad because of Vanimórë is Sauron's son, and Sauron tormented _thy_ son. Just tell me it was not some act of revenge.''  
  
''It was not,'' Fëanor said equivocally. His face shone, flesh and bone covering a light which welled through it as white fire under alabaster.  
  
''By the Hells, thou dost have a knack of making powerful enemies!''  
  
''Elgalad wanted it. If Vanimórë could think beyond who he is, what he was, he would take Elgalad himself, the fool.''  
  
''Thy fire will scorch him,'' Fingolfin flashed, breast to breast with his brother.   
  
''He enjoyed it. And he at least has the courage to look into his soul and surrender to his desires!''  
  
''Ah, is this it then? I am a coward? What is in thee can kill...'' Fingolfin caught back the hot words as something flashed over his half brother's face.  
''Forgive me,'' he said, appalled.  
  
''I murdered my mother? Is that not what the Valar said? That I drained her of life in the womb, that I was ill-begotten? That I should never have been born?'' There was something terrifyingly flat in the words.  
  
''No.'' Just for a moment Fingolfin had glimpsed something behind the flaming facade which did not evoke desire, but pity.  
  
''I will accept the guilt of the Oath, brother. But thou wouldst say I slew my mother?''  
  
Fingolfin shook his head. ''No,'' he repeated.  
  
''Then _what?_'' The word cracked like lightning from a storm-cloud.  
  
''Thou art a Balrog in the form of an Elf! Middle-earth is not made for thee!''  
  
''I am what I am,'' Fëanor placed the words carefully. ''I am as Eru made me.''  
  
''The One does not _make_ thee act!'' Fingolfin snapped. ''Elgalad is part of this new balance! Thou dost have an enemy like Morgoth, and he will _kill thee_.''  
  
''Will he?''  
  
''Morgoth slew me.'' Fingolfin spoke through memories of pain and despair. ''And I was as filled with rage and madness as thou wert after our father was killed and the Silmarilli stolen. And I could not prevail. I died believing I had failed our people and thee."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I love thee, but I fear for thee. Thou dost blaze like a star, and I would not see that burn into madness and blackness again. One like that already exists, and what wouldst thou do, what voices might thou not hearken to, if _they_ whispered to thee that thou couldst have anything, everything?'' His hands ran up into the tossed mane of ebony hair. "So now we come to it. Let thy fires burn _me,_ my brother."  
  
He heard the intake of breath, low, amused laughter.  
''Is this what it takes for me to have thee?"  
  
''I will do anything to prevent thee bringing death down upon thyself...And do it with both eyes open — '' His words were muffled by his brothers mouth.  
  
A light of desire and triumph lit Fëanor's eyes as he drew back. ''Come,'' he whispered. "With both eyes open. Come."  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Glorfindel sighted down the blade of Sarambar, sheathed it with a hiss and looked east toward the great line of snow capped mountains beyond the forest. There were passes through them; Fingolfin had told him of their journey into the lands beyond.  
  
''Shouldst thou have spoken to Men?'' Glorfindel had wondered.  
  
''As it was, we hardly had much choice. Is it indeed true then, that we are not to have any part in Endor save this? Is it so ordained? I knew Men and loved them, once.''  
  
''I know not,'' Glorfindel had admitted.  
  
Now he shook his head as he considered Fëanor. _ Damn thee and damn Vanimórë. _  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Tindómion stirred, lifting his head as the sky paled and watched the stars fade into the opening day. He glanced across the chamber to where Elgalad lay on a long couch. He had slept. Tindómion had not.  
  
From far away he heard harp-song. He knew it. He would always know it. It had haunted his dreams before he ever saw his father.  
He rose abruptly as he realized that this was not something audible. It was in his mind. A lay of sorrow, of tragedy.  
  
Maglor was playing the _Noldolantë, _ the Fall of the Noldor.  
  
_Father?_ he asked, troubled, and there was silence. A dawn breeze moved the rich hangings, touched Elgalad. He moved, his eyes focused.  
  
_Father?_ Tindómion called again, and distantly, as if he was speaking from beyond time, or very long ago, Maglor said, _Forgive me. _  
  
''_Father!_'' It rang in the room and in mind-speech. Elgalad came to his feet, his eyes questioning.  
  
_I love thee, Istelion._  
  
Tindómion flung around, pain and fear leaping into his eyes.  
  
''He has gone.'' He could not comprehend it.  
  
Running to the balcony, he vaulted over it and landed below in catlike silence. Elgalad followed him through the dawn gardens, winding through trees, leaping streams and pools to reach the center of the palace complex where he high king dwelt.  
  
Taking the private stairs up to Fëanor's chambers, Tindómion did not even knock as he burst through the outer door into the wide room. Elgalad saw him stop dead, as if he had slammed into a wall of glass.  
  
Fëanor lounged upon the wide bed. He was deliberately, lazily pouring wine from a jeweled goblet onto Fingolfin's white back. The liquid ran down in a clear stream and pooled in the hollow above his buttocks. Fëanor leaned over, drinking. Fingolfin's eyes closed in pleasure.  
  
There was something both so wrong and so wickedly erotic in the scene that Tindómion felt himself burning with a furious, roused heat. Fingolfin, whose mouth had worn a sensuous smile, opened his eyes and froze for a moment. But Fëanor glanced up, unhurried, unconcerned.  
  
It looked like some wildly rich painting drawn on shining marble, or a sculpture capturing vivid sexuality: two magnificent Noldor, stunningly alike, posed in barbarically gorgeous attitudes. Elgalad felt heat erupt through him. Tindómion braced himself against the door-post, words forced from his constricted throat.   
''He has gone. Thou hast caused him to flee!''  
  
Fëanor came to his feet, Fingolfin joined him, their eyes fixed on him.  
  
''I heard him. He has gone!'' Tindómion lashed out with a blow that would have connected, save that it was caught in a movement faster than sight.  
  
''When?'' Fëanor demanded.  
  
''Just now, this dawn. What hast thou done?''  
  
''I am weary of being asked that,'' Fëanor said and then, abruptly: ''We ride.''  
  
''Dost thou not understand?'' Tindómion cried. ''Dost thou know _where_ he must be going? And to _ whom?_''  
  
"To whom?" The expression that struck Fëanor's face then shocked his grandson with its wild pain. Elgalad gasped. Fëanor closed his eyes, said, "He goes to Vanimórë. The only person who might help him understand is another who was desired by his father." ~  
  
~~~


	9. 'Well Met, Old Friend.'

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ When the young Ahari tribesman returned to his village, it was decided to send a group out to track the strange folk. They had gone Kai said, into the mountains and Lai Mi, the finest tracker of the tribe, had found and followed the hoof-prints. These proved that Kai had not been drunk or partaking of narcotic herbs. It also showed that the folk he had seen were real and not demons. Lai Mi had never heard of demons in horse shape, or demons who rode horses. The size of the hooves were neat, but larger than a pony's; the length of the stride also bore out the young man's words that they had been tall, proud beasts.

For days the party followed, as the winds grew more chill. They found the remains of camp fires, whose neatness indicated a long familiarity with journeying, and was proof positive that these travelers caught game and cooked and ate it. Few demons were spoken of as bothering to cook their prey.

Now the mountains filled their vision, great towers barricading the summer sky. The trail lead into them. It was not old, and Lai Mi was confident of glimpsing the riders soon. It was in a state of anticipation salted by wariness that they came to a gorge flanked by high green cliffs — and completely lost the tracks. They did not fade, they were gone as completely as if a god's hand had lifted the horses up and carried them away. Lai Mi cast around, covering the length of the gorge, finding a path fit only for mountain goats. Impassible cliffs loomed beyond.

It was uncanny. He retraced their route but there was no sign the horses had doubled back though the riders, seeing that there was no way through, should have turned aside. The spoor lead into the gorge, then stopped. They searched for a league in each direction, but only found the prints they had been following all along. The men were uneasy, whispering old tales of ghosts and evil spirits who lead people into desolate places and consumed their souls.

''They were real,'' insisted Kai. The tracker nodded.

''I believe you, we have all seen their tracks, ghosts do not ride horses. And I never heard of a demon shooting a grouse and roasting it over a fire.''

''Then where are they, Lai?'' some-one asked, reasonably in the circumstances. The tracker shook his head. 

~~~

Back at the encampment, the Chieftain listened, ordered wider patrols, more guards and was inclined to leave it at that. But Kai was not. He was desperate to prove that the shining people he had seen were real.  
Under the pretense (and very real duty) of watching the herd, he traveled further and further into the foothills, seeking. The tribe would depart for its winter camp in a few weeks and he wanted to find something before they left.

~~~

The wind whipped Maglor's hair back, tugged at his cloak, but he did not feel the cold as he stared down at the lands which lay beyond the Mountains. Tumbled foothills rolled into distant plains, easing out of the greyness of dawn as the sun lifted herself beyond the eastern horizon. Had he been walking forever? It seemed like it, that his time in New Cuiviénen had been a brief dream. So long had he walked aimless, mad, wandering the world. Perhaps he wandered still. 

No, it had been real. Too real. His father was right in what he said. Maglor had spent too long entrapped by his memories. First there was Fëanor, whom had awoken his passion, and after, Sauron's son, who was so very like Fëanor.  
It was only now Maglor could admit that he hated himself for his weakness as much as he hated Vanimórë, and as for his father...in Tirion, Fëanor's intention had been to show him what Maedhros felt for Fingon, that he might better understand his brother. Now, in their new home, his father had seen how lost to the past Maglor was. Had his seduction been an attempt to heal?  
That fire...Maglor shivered, but not from the buffet of the wind. Fëanor incinerated taboos and customs so ancient few could remember whence they devolved, and it troubled him not at all. Maglor was afraid he would lose whatever he had left of himself if he remained in New Cuiviénen; he could not hold out for long. He loved is father too deeply, wanted him too much. He had been in the cold too long.

But such a relationship was so flagrantly _ wrong!_ It would drive him mad ere the end. He knew only one person who might in some measure understand — the second of his personal demons.

The walls of the gorge were steep and green. So silent was it that the harsh _pruuk, pruuk!_ of a raven echoed, and the patter of shale dislodged by the long-horned sheep who perched precariously on the ledges was loud in the silence. The bird called again and it faded into a voice calling weakly, in the last extremes of despair.

Kai thought he was delirious when the man with the flaming silver eyes knelt next to him. He felt firm hands on his body, and gasped out that his ankle was broken. He had tried to climb, looking for some hidden shelf or track above the chasm, and had fallen. Two days and nights he had lain, soaked with a summer storm, chilled by the ever-cold winds. He was feverish, and his ankle was a constant throb of agony which spiked him with iron teeth if he moved.

Something soft settled over him, a cloak which smelled of perfume, and his head was gently lifted. He tasted wine, heady and smooth in his mouth, and drank until his head swam and even the pain seemed to subside a little. He drifted in and out of consciousness as the man worked at building a fire and was jolted brutally awake as he felt his ankle being splinted. He cried out.

''I must make thy leg immobile.'' The words were quiet, with the same strange but beautiful pronunciation as he had heard before. They were spoken as one who was thinking the words through before he said them, thought Kai before, despite the gentleness of the hands, he screamed.

''Forgive me,'' Maglor murmured and moved back — as a hand-axe whistled through the air above his head. He heard the hum of it as he reflexively ducked, flung himself back from Kai and rolled smoothly to his feet, his sword already out.

Four men stood at the entrance to the gorge. Two held bows, one a spear and the other a throwing knife plucked from a baldric he wore across his breast.

''Get back from him,'' Lai Mi ordered. ''Kai, boy, can you hear me?''

''His ankle is broken,'' Maglor said carefully as he stepped back, his eyes flashing between the men and gauging their readiness to kill him. The bowstrings were not yet at full tension so the men were disciplined, he thought, save for one whose forehead glistened with sweat and whose hand on the bow shook. He said, high and sharp: ''Do not look at me! Lai Mi, he will put a curse on you.''

''Be quiet,'' snapped Lai Mi. ''Put down your sword, stranger, or we will shoot.''

Maglor glanced at him, then slowly set the sword down and straightened.

The tracker knelt next to Kai, feeling his raging fever and noting the splinted ankle. It was tied with fine blue silk, and the cloak that covered him was of fine cloth. Gold and silver threads winked at the collar and hem. Spots of wine upon it were still round and full, showing that it was proof against rain.

''He has laid sickness on Kai.'' 

''Sulan, be silent. Kai, can you hear me? What happened?''

The youth's teeth chattered. He moved his head.  
''I fell...I was looking...'' He moaned and the strange man said, ''He needs a healer.''

''Do not speak,'' Sulan cried, and the arrow flew, but his aim was compromised by his nerves and it sang past Maglor, who swayed aside in a graceful motion. His booted foot moved, kicked under the sword and caught the hilt. It was so fast even Lai Mi could not react as Maglor flung himself forward and described a perfect somersault in the air, landing behind the men. Cold metal touched Lai Mi's throat.

''Lay down thy weapons,'' Maglor commanded. ''I have no desire to hurt thee, but I will be on my way.''

With a furious, chagrined look the tracker gave the order. The spear and bows dropped, followed by his own knife, and when the fiery-eyed demon — for sure he was no man — jerked his head, the baldric followed. The blade drew back. Maglor moved away. A distant, soft roll of thunder echoed in the peaks high above.

''My thanks. A storm is coming. I suggest finding shelter, for the boy's sake.'' He stopped as he saw that the men were looking at him with most peculiar expressions. Or rather, not at him, _ beyond _ him.

He whirled, felt a hand lock like steel about his wrist and came up against a hard, leather clad chest.

''Well met, old friend,'' said Vanimórë. ~

~~~


	10. Where You Go, I Shall Follow

 

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The distinct tang of autumn was upon the air. The wheat-fields of the principality were turning gold, and apple’s were full and ripe upon heavy boughs in the orchards. Ships were making their last voyages before going into dry dock for the winter, although the fishermen still took to the open sea to lower their nets and upon the land the farmers worked to harvest their crops.

On this windy autumn day a sleek ship prepared to depart, and Imrahil himself was on deck for the last inspection. The prince turned at the sound of a swift-approaching horse, and saw his eldest son come into view. His lawn shirt was blown against his body and his hair tousled, and casting his Father a delighted grin, he looked back at a wagon slowly rolling into sight.

Halting the horses, the driver rose and bowed to the princes, then leapt nimbly down from his seat and moved to the back of the wagon. He extended a hand which was accepted as Anwyn carefully stepped down, before moving to her husband's side.

Servants carried aboard large wooden chests, taking them below-decks and Imrahil nodded to himself; he was well traveled enough to ensure that they would have everything needed even if the journey would be a relatively short one to Ithilien and then later onto Minas Tirth.

The prince felt a deep sense of contentment as he looked at Elphir who had placed his arm about his wife. Often marriage between nobles were contracted for political ends, and both husband and wife were fortunate if they formed a friendship. Anwyn had brought neither lands nor dowry to Elphir, but as he watched his son's face, Imrahil could not regret that he had permitted this marriage.

They had been invited to Mina’s Tirith by King Elessar to celebrate Yule, and this year Imrahil had elected to send Elphir and Anwyn on his behalf. Anwyn had said she wished to spend some time with her mother in Ithilien before journeying to Minas Tirith. They would remain in the city through the winter, retuning in the spring when the child that Anwyn carried, by Imrahil’s estimation, would be born.

The prince was happy enough to allow Anwyn to go. And if not now, she would be unable to until after the birth. Ithilien would be splendid and golden at this time of the year, and also it would be a reprieve, for Anwyn was troubled, Imrahil sensed. Since the announcement that she carried Elphir’s first child there had been a great deal of excitement at court, for if the child were a son, It would be another heir to the long unbroken line of Princes.

Anywn had good-naturedly accepted congratulations and many words of wisdom from other women whom had borne healthy children, but it left very little time for privacy and she grew weary easily in these days. Imrahil thought she looked well, however, her high cheeks bore a faint flush and the smile upon her lip’s lit her eyes. She she clearly welcomed this journey, and it would not be an arduous one. She was naturally slender and the telltale rounding of her belly was already visible, by the time she returned, she would almost be to full-term.

“May your journey be safe and the wind fill your sails,” Imrahil lifted Anwyn’s hand and gently kissed it, and she inclined her head. He turned to his son and grasped his wrist.  
“Farewell Elphir, I shall await word you have both arrived safely.”

“Farewell, father.” Elphir bowed, then lead Anwyn up the ship's ramp. Above them the white sails tumbled down and were immediately caught and filled by a strong wind. The ship glided away from the dock and towards the walls of the harbor and the open sea beyond.  
Anwyn watched from the deck of the ship until she could no longer see land across the water.

~~~

Their journey was peaceful. Anwyn who had little to do but look within and be patient as every day slowly carried them towards Emyn Arnen where Prince Faramir was to meet them.

“We shall arrive in ten day’s time,” Elphir announced, appearing satisfied as he leaned away from the map he had been studying and lifted his wine cup. Anwyn could not help but marvel, not knowing how he gauged the time and distance. She sighed.  
“What is the matter?” Elphir asked gently his gaze upon her.

“Only a few days have passed, it seems much longer,” Anwyn confessed.

Elphir graced her with a warm smile though his expression also held understanding.  
“Do not fret my love. The wind has been with us, we are making good time. Will you enjoy fair Ithilien?”

Anwyn smiled and nodded though in the confines of a ship, ten more days seemed to her seemed an eternity.

~~~

Next to the fishing and merchant vessels, the royal ship of of Dol Amroth did indeed look a swan amidst a flock of brown ducks.  
The port master had hurried to meet them, explaining that Prince Faramir had sent word they were to arrive, but was not yet come himself. Elphir knew that they were some days earlier than anticipated and was happy enough to take lodgings at the good inn until Faramir arrived. It was obvious that everything had been done to see that Dol Amroth was housed in comfort and Anwyn was especially grateful for a roaring fire and a large tub filled with hot water. The bath and meal had eased her into a deep comfortable sleep which she did not wake from early the next morning. After dressing she was told by one of the guards that had journeyed with them from Dol Amroth that Faramir was yet to arrive and that the Prince Elphir awaited her below.

The village here had been built between the river and the forest, but the following evening Anwyn had been more preoccupied with promises of bath and bed than in looking at the scenery. Now, the sunlight of morning streamed through the leaves, causing shifting patterns of light. Anwyn was captivated by the autumn foliage of the trees. Leaves had already drifted down to the ground, and created a flaming mosaic of color beneath her feet.

Hearing the softest rustle, she turned to Elphir who stood, hand behind his back and a mischievous light in eyes. She was wary, but amused. Elphir was a very stern man, so she delighted in those times when he partook of mischief and abdicated his dignity. She took a step towards him, attempting to peer behind his back.  
“What do you have there?” she asked as he sidestepped to mirror her own movement.

“Dear wife, Do your not trust me?” he asked innocently, and there was something in his face that made her smile grow.

“Yes, but I-“

The words were cut short by a shriek of laughter as an armful of leave’s rained down upon her. Anwyn leapt towards him and together they toppled over. Elphir caught her to cushion her fall as they landed, the leaves slowly fluttering to the ground about them.

“It is good to be upon the land once more,” Anwyn murmured.

“It is good to have you here, Lady Anwyn.”

Anwyn startled at the voice, whipping her head about in the direction the voice. Elphir was instantly on his feet though the hard line of his posture at once relaxed, and he turned back to help Anwyn to her feet. Both bowed.

“Prince Faramir.”

There was unmistakable warmth in the soft gray eyes of the Prince of Ithilien as he regarded them both, and it sparked with amusement as Anwyn removed an oak leaf from her long hair.

“Welcome. You are both most welcome here,” Faramir moved forward to embrace her. “Your mother has been anticipating your visit ever since she received your letter, Lady.”

“I look forward to seeing her once more,” Anwyn replied simply. She had always felt a great deal of gratitude towards Faramir, for he was one of the few who had accepted her so readily despite the strange circumstances of her birth. While she had some idea of Faramir’s age she could not help but notice how young he always appeared.

“Then let us not keep the lady Eowyn waiting any longer, shall we?” Faramir said winking at them both before making a sweeping gesture with his arm. “I believe congratulation’s are also due?” He beamed at them both. “Come. My escort wait just beyond and while the journey shall be long I think you shall find it most enjoyable, especially you Lady Anwyn!” ~

~~~


	11. Blood Oath

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**Minas Tirith **   
~ King Elessar considered any time spent observing his son in training was a pleasure. Although young for one of his lineage, Eldarion already bade fair to becoming a skilled warrior. Usually Elessar would have watched intently, but today he had no time. He had run from the chamber, startling the guard and those he passed, carrying the letter he had received in one hand. He waved it as he called to his son.  
Eldarion turned his head, and after a word to his instructor and a polite bow, he crossed to the edge of the training ground. His hair, which was very long in defiance of Gondor's fashions, was caught back in a braid such as the Elves wore in battle.

''_Adar?_'' He insisted on using Sindarin in familial words and sometimes everyday speech, though Elessar counseled that he not show his marked favoritism for the Elves as he grew older. Eldarion would be a King of Men.

''Elphir and his wife Anwyn are in Dol Amroth.'' he said, as Eldarion sat down beside him.

''_ What?_'' Eldarion gasped. Then: ''Are they well?''

''It would seem so.''

''What happened to them?'' Eldarion was itching to see the letter, and his father smiled a little and spread it out over his knees. The soldiers had paused at the sight of their King but he gestured for them to continue.

''Have you ever heard of a place called Tanith?'' Elessar asked. His son's brow creased. 

"Harad?'' he hazarded. 

''Yes, on the sea called the Straights of the World. I have heard of it. Elphir and Anwyn were kidnapped and taken there.''

After the tale had been read, Eldarion clenched his hand into a fist on his knees and bowed his head. The thick hair, drawn back, showed the Elvish tip to his ears. As Eldarion grew, he looked more and more like his uncles, the Stars of Imladris, very little like his father. His grey eyes were brilliant and his features held the pure, high bones of the Firstborn. With his blood he would live even longer than Aragorn, but he he did not have the choice of the Peredhil and would ultimately die. It seemed somehow wrong to consider that in one who looked so Elvish, and who loved that kindred. His young sisters were far more Mortal in appearance; it was as if Eldarion was one last flowering of the line of Beren and Lúthien.

''Do you believe this, _adar?_'' he asked, sounding oddly calm, for he was thinking back himself over things which he had never told his father.

''I believe Elphir, and have no reason to disbelieve his wife. I would be less likely to believe it had I not also received a letter from the king of Tanith. I but glanced at it. Come, we will read it together.''

Once in his chambers, Elessar dismissed his scribes and smoothed out Khanad's letter, Eldarion leaning over to read it with him.

''I wanted to speak to you alone.'' His finger tapped the vellum. ''You know these two, Vanimórë, Elgalad.'' His eyes were fixed on his son's face, who felt the blood burn up into it. Vanimórë had been a fascinating enigma to the young man. 

''Elgalad I know better,'' he said. 

''But Vanimórë is the god. And it would seem a dangerous one.''

''Yes,'' Eldarion said. "He is dangerous." And flushed more deeply.

His father frowned. ''Elphir is bringing his wife to Ithilien he says, to visit her mother, we will learn more when we speak to them.'' He smiled faintly. ''Anwyn is pregnant. Elphir is overjoyed.''

''Oh.'' Complex emotions assailed Eldarion. He had thought himself over them and took a moment to wrestle with the old pangs. His first meeting with Anwyn in Minas Tirith had been under curious circumstances, and he had mistrusted her, so used to seeing people try to inveigle themselves into his father's good graces, or his own, that he was suspicious. But soon that had faded to attraction. He had run the gamut of emotions of jealousy and desire until, in Annúminas, Vanimórë had revealed who Anwyn was. His half-sister.

The attraction had not immediately been quashed, but she was wed and happy and he was genuinely glad for her. Even had she returned his feelings, it was not possible for Elessar's son to marry an illegitimate woman, though her mother was Eowyn, sister to the King of Rohan. Indeed it was not necessary he wed any-one yet; he was young, but that did not prevent people viewing him as heir-apparent, and having young noblewomen thrown in his path.

_Sold as slaves? _ He shuddered at that, and addressed his attention to the letter again.

''I will come with you,'' he said. ''I thank the One that they are returned.''

Eldarion adored his father. He was far closer to him than his mother, and almost as close to his uncles. He had never kept secrets from the King. Only this one, for it was not for him to reveal.

''_Adar?_''

''Yes?''

''Let us learn more about Tanith. I know it is far, but I would be interested to visit it.''

Elessar nodded. ''I will discover all I can before I let my only son make such a journey, but the King writes well and according to Elphir and his wife he is a good man.'' He drew a sheet of vellum toward him. ''I will write to Dol Amroth and Tanith.''

''So will I,'' Eldarion nodded. ''I will look forward to seeing them. All of them.''

~~~

**East of New Cuiviénen.**

''What just happened?''

Lai Mi came out of his paralysis as the two strange men vanished. Of course they did not _vanish_ as demons might be expected to, in fire and smoke. He had distinctly seen the one who had been tending Kai bring up his knee in a vicious, very human move, and then both had tumbled down the slope behind them. 

''Pick up your weapons.'' he ordered, ''_Do not_ shoot unless I order it. That...creature was helping Kai. Look, he left his cloak over him, gave him wine, splinted his ankle. Sulan, listen to me.'' He buckled his baldric, ''Demons do not, in general, help people, can you understand that? Kai has a fever from exposure to rain and wind. I will steep herbs. We need shelter, it will rain soon.''

"But the...? Where are they gone?'' Meken stared toward where the two had vanished.

''I think...'' The tacker tilted his head and listened to the sounds of struggle. ''that they are fighting.''

Maglor slammed his head forward in a smashing butt to Vanimórë's brow and the two hurtled further down the slope, coming to rest against an outcropping of rock. Maglor found himself on his back, held down by and straddled. Raging amethyst eyes flamed down into his.

''**Fëanor !**'' Vanimórë's voice was a growl, and it bled into the rumbles of thunder in the high peaks. ''It was he who...!''

Abruptly, he rose, and Maglor came to his feet. 

"Elgalad was not hurt!" 

"And you...! Just for a moment you wanted revenge. That rather turned on thee, did it not?"

"So _ kill me for pleasuring him,_" Maglor flashed.

"Kill thee? After once saving thy life?" There was a hot, dangerous gleam in the violet eyes.

''I did not want it to be saved.''

''Too late. Thou art so much more entertaining alive. And he turned to thee, to thy kindness...And thou wert..._very_ kind."

"Hells, how canst thou resist him and not give him what he needs?" Maglor flung into his face. "He was desperate. He is made for love, for sex."

"That is enough. Do not push me further. Thou knowest why I will not take him." Vanimórë turned and strode up the slope slamming back his rage.

''Lai...''

The tracker looked up as one of the...men? came over the crest into the gorge, his hands raised in the universal gesture of peace. The hilts of twin swords rode on his back and he was all in black, as well-worn and practical Lai's own garb. But it was his eyes which gathered the mens' attention. In the gloom they were a lambent, unnatural purple.

''I come as a friend, and would aid thee.'' He spoke the dialect perfectly, but the phrasing was ancient and formal. ''My...friend and I journey on, but would help thee first with the boy.''

Maglor crested the rise behind him, his heart pounding. He wished their fight had not been truncated; it had at least allowed him to release some of his frustration.

''Who are you?'' the tracker asked. ''You are not Men.''

''No.'' The reply was accompanied by a smile. ''I think your people called them White Fiends long ago.''

Sulan started at that. ''But they are legend. Myth.''

''Legends are sometimes based on fact,'' Vanimórë responded. ''Now, wilt thou allow us to help thee? The boy needs attention.''

''So then, stop the storm,'' Maglor advised through his teeth.

Vanimórë glanced up at the mountains, as if considering.  
''I do not really like to meddle with nature overmuch, I still have to learn to control my anger. Let us instead find some shelter.''

''White Fiends?'' Lai repeated. ''I also believed you myth. You were enemies of our ancestors.''

''And some of thine ancestors betrayed me and mine.'' Maglor stepped forward and into Vanimórë's out-flung arm.

''Not all of them. And now is not the time to stir old coals. We need to make a litter.''

''Why dost thou care?'' Maglor demanded as he strode to a small group of saplings near the canyon mouth.

''Thou knowest well enough that some of the Eastern Men were loyal."

''Lai?'' Sulan searched for guidance.

"He is right, let us attend to Kai. Sulan, I want you to start back, our Chief needs to know that we have found his son.''

~~~

The storm broke in full soon after. A hasty litter had been lashed together and Kai was carried as carefully as possible down from the gorge.

When they had come this way earlier in the summer, the tracker had noted good places to make camp and wanted to reach one of them now: a dell under an overhang of rock. But there was no real shelter from the rain, until the two strangers lent a hand, bending the whippy branches of two small trees together, securing them to form a small tent.  
A fire was lit and soon warmed the air about the feverish youth. He slept as Lai crumbled dried herbs into the wine offered by the silver-eyed fiend. Ridiculous, he could not call them fiends, although they were inhuman enough!

Water boiled in a dented pot suspended over the fire, and the tracker glanced up as he saw the stranger adding leaves which were unfamiliar to him. He was about to protest as a scent arose, which was so clean that the air seemed to dance through his blood like wine. He took a deep breath.

''It is called Athelas,'' Maglor said as he tore at his shirt and dipped the material into the water. He wrung it out and laid it on Kai's forehead. ''It is a healing plant.''

Not long after the fever broke and began to ebb, even as the last of the storm rumbled away to the south.

Meken had caught a mountain grouse, and prepared a stew. He glanced into the little cave made by the trees, where Lai Mi sat beside Kai, whose breathing was now deep and peaceful. He no longer moaned or tossed his head and the tracker spared a prayer to the Gods, for Caidu's grief would have been great had he lost his firstborn. Seeing the younger warrior's eyes on him, Lai Mi tilted his head, beckoning. Meken entered, handing the tracker a cup of the hot broth.  
''Are they truly the Fiends from ancient times?'' he whispered.

''Well, they are not men.'' Mi took a sip and shrugged. ''But they helped Kai. He needs only to heal now, and sleep"

The rich cloak had been left as a covering for the youth, with an almost full wineskin and a pouch of the odd leaves, which Lai had been examining. The wine was unlike anything he had tasted, as if it was crushed from the ripest of autumn fruits, and it bubbled on the tongue, rich and mellow. One mouthful had lightened his mood and relaxed him, which he was aware was dangerous in these circumstances. The strangers stood watch, silent as if carven from wood, only their hair moving, whipping in the wet wind.

The men stayed, carrying the litter until the foothills were behind them. They never spoke to one another, and the atmosphere between them was so thick that Lai would have wagered them to be blood-enemies. The look that the silver eyed one cast at the other was filled with rage at times, and the tracker would not have trusted any-one around _him_ who bore such obvious enmity. They seemed tireless, setting a smooth pace which only the fittest could keep up with, and fortunately Lai and those with him were very fit. Yet they were glad when evening came and they could camp and rest.

It was mid afternoon, of the fourth day, when the hills had sprawled at last into the grass of the plain, that they set the litter down.

''Horses,'' the black-clad man said at the tracker's surprised look. Lai Mi saw nothing and bent to touch the ground. Sure enough, the distant thunder of hooves vibrated through it.

''We should thank...' He rose and looked around.

They were gone.

''I told you,'' Kai said, now clear eyed and restless at his immobility. ''They are not demons or enemies. Maybe they are Gods?''

''I would not like to have them as enemies,'' the older man muttered as they waited for the patrol to arrive. ''And they may not be demons or gods, boy, but they possess some strange powers. And I am glad of it for we would be carrying only your body home to your father.''

~~~

** Tanith **

The chamber was white stone. It was not etched and patterned with melted gems, as in New Cuiviénen, yet it was beautiful, bespeaking wealth and skilled masons. The scent of flowers drifted in the open balcony from a garden where a fountain murmured. The light was different here; thick, evening-gold and Maglor realized this was Tanith. The heat, the perfume, the aroma of incense, brought to mind everything his son had said of the southern city.  
His son. The Fëanorion's heart suddenly throbbed with an awakened ache – his son, his brothers, his father... He spun to confront the one whom had brought him here.

Vanimórë was pouring wine, his back to Maglor. This seemed almost insulting. During the days they had carried the young boy down from the mountains, Vanimórë had said nothing, and Maglor found himself in the strange position of not wishing to instigate anything. His initial violence had been replaced by the mundane duties of the journey. He had seen Vanimórë's wrath at Elgalad's seduction, then it was gone as quickly as if buried under ice.

_My father could not do that. _

A brimming goblet was pushed across the tabletop in silence. Vanimórë lifted his own and drank, then set it down with a chink and drew a dagger smoothly from his thigh sheath. Without thought, Maglor's own blade flashed out, but Vanimórë appeared not to see.  
The Fëanorion watched in bewilderment then shock as Vanimórë discarded his tunic, and drew a diagonal cut from shoulder to hip. Scarlet wept down the taut-muscled chest and stomach.  
''This is _my_ blood oath.'' The violet eyes came up. There was red flame in them. ''I am going to make Fëanor regret what he did.''  
Maglor's pulse pounded in his head.  
''I was as much to blame!''

Vanimórë drew his fingers through the blood, then cracked an openhanded slap across Maglor's face, smearing crimson. He gripped Maglor's face in one hand, catching his sword-arm with the other.  
''Fëanor _used_ Elgalad, but I cannot even accuse him of revenge, for he does not know about us, does he, _my beauty?_''  
He whirled away presenting his back to the Fëanorion, his only protection against violence the rippling raven hair. Maglor's sword rose, tangling light, hanging at the apex of its ascent before, with a curse, he flung it aside.  
''I cannot kill thee,'' he hissed. ''Thou canst not be slain, canst thou? However much I may desire thy death, thou wilt not die.''

''And yet, thou didst come to me.''

The words caught Maglor into stillness. He stared, swallowed bitterness.  
''Thou didst see _everything._''

''So, Fëanor seduced thee after Elgalad. What dost thou want me to do, sympathize?'' Vanimórë turned back to him.

''_Damn thee,_ I do not know! Thine own father...''

Within his son, Sauron's spirit smiled with amusement.

''My father." Vanimórë threw back his head and laughed without humor. "Shall we just say that he did not love me. I would have felt no guilt if he had. And thou feelest guilt because _Fëanor_ wants thee. That is almost...funny to me. But then, I have a strange sense of humor. And I must thank thee for leaving New Cuiviénen. I cannot enter and I would not have known whom had taken Elgalad. ''

Maglor's heart plunged. ''Ah, no...'' Of course, his leaving the protection of the haven allowed Vanimórë to see his mind.  
''I came because I needed to face thee,'' he cried. ''My father thinks me trapped in my past, by memories, by madness...he wanted to make me live, heal me...''

Vanimórë looked at him, unblinkingly. ''He is right. And I wager when Fëanor knows what truly happened in Barad-dûr I will not be the only one who swears an Oath. Thy father does have a talent for making enemies of Powers, does he not?''  
The rage melted from his eyes, they gleamed as he tilted his head, and a half-smile lifted one corner of his mouth.  
''So, thou didst come to confront thy demons, Maglor Fëanorion. Behold me.'' He leaned back against the table, hands spread each side.  
''_Confront me._'' ~

~~~

  

 


	12. Passionate Impasse

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
''Elgalad. Wait.''

He halted but did not turn as Tindómion caught his shoulder. The Fëanorion's face was stern. He was rigid as a lance.

''Did he hurt thee?''

Elgalad's colour was still heightened by the atmosphere of burning eroticism in the bedchamber.  
''No.'' The thick lashes dropped over his eyes, he pulled away, almost breaking into a run. ''Of course not. I am not thinking of th-that.''

''Then what?''  
  
The corridor turned, and they were close to Maglor's chambers. Catching Elgalad's arm again Tindómion dragged him inside and slammed the door shut.

"I vowed I w-would be celibate if _h-he_ was," Elgalad said. "Unnatural though it is. And wanting h-him day after day burned in my bones. Yet until Fëanor, I held to my v-vow." 

''A foolish vow," Tindómion snapped. "Vanimórë is a fool sometimes. But Elgalad, this I do need to know: Did Fëanor have my father?"

''I...'' Elgalad remembered how he had watched, roused to pain once again, the two Fëanorions. He could not prevent his blush, and even the thought made him hard.

The carved wood of the door protested as Tindómion's fist drove into it, cracking the skin of his knuckles. He turned away, looking about the room, trying to see what his father might have taken. A lyre was gone, probably some clothing, but very little; Maglor was travelling fast and light.

''Vanimórë will n-not turn him away."

''I know.'' Tindómion cursed and groaned. ''Father! Ages I searched for thee and thou wouldst flee and go to the very one whom thou so hated? And he was with thee also, was he not? Would Vanimórë harm him?''

Elgalad shook his head.  
''No. I do not th-think so. In Esgaroth, I saw how they looked at one another...'' He added bitterly: "He _wants_ Maglor."

Tindómion paused and then laid his hands on Elgalad's shoulders.  
''He also wants thee.''

''He thinks I m-may die if he has me.''

''Legolas does not die, and Glorfindel loves and desires him." He hesitated, then: "Dost thou feel there is any truth in that? Would his possession hurt thee?''

''I do n-not know.'' The answer was almost inaudible. ''I do not care. He is mine.''

~~~

The blood filled Maglor's vision, cast him back brutally into old torment. He saw himself again stretched upon a stone table. A knife flashed, probed at him, exploding nerves into such pain that he went mad...the wheel turned him into the great trough of orc filth which he breathed, vomited up...

_Scream, Kinslayer_

_"Take him down."_

_"I will give thee...myself."_

His eyes rose from the long cut. He blinked.

''I am mad.'' His voice fell into the stillness of the chamber like a harp-note. ''I should have died then.''

''Thou wert not meant to die. Dost thou not see? The time was ordained — that Ar-Pharazôn should land at Umbar and summon Sauron, that he should leave Mordor, that I should remain and be ordered to heal thee, then take thee to Númenor so thou couldst be broken wholly in mind and spirit, to be witless, to grovel and drivel and perform tricks for him, the last of a mighty House, reduced to idiocy.'' Vanimórë hissed the words, his voice alight with venom against his father who smiled within like a snake in remembered amusement. ''I would never have permitted that. He must have known it.''

A flicker of curiosity moved in Maglor's heart.  
''What was thy punishment?''  
  
The sun was sinking, the air rich with jasmine, rose, with incense and dusk. The purple eyes were the gems which had dusted the table in Tirion where Fëanor had first awoken his desire...  
At his question a cold, remote amusement showed in them.

''Fear not, I _was _ punished.''

Maglor remembered hands lowering him into scented water, washing caked filth from his hair and flesh. He found himself tearing at his silk shirt, dipping it into his wine, wiping the blood. The cut showed stark against Vanimórë's white skin.

''Thy brother Maedhros did not die on Thangorodrim. They was in thy mind, ere the end, before thou didst make a conscious choice to die: Maedhros, and thy father.''

The soiled rag dropped to the floor.  
''He had Fingon...'' Maglor's memories swept further back: Maedhros' command to him before he was ambushed and taken, to never treat with Morgoth, to hold his brothers together, to stay with them and lead them at all costs. That promise had racked him even as Maedhros hung in torment.

''Consider me...thy Fingon, thy salvation from Barad-dûr as Fingon was thy brother's salvation from Thangorodrim.'' Vanimórë's voice was faintly teasing and it shook Maglor back to the present.

''Thou art no Fingon the Valiant.'' He stepped back. "But let us deal together. Thou didst want me once. Recant thine Oath, thou didst tell me once to forget mine. And I will — willingly — be thine.''

''I make no bargains with thee!'' The reply was slammed back. He was suddenly pressed hard against Maglor's body. ''There was _glory_ in what we shared. Admit it.''

The blood pushed up under Maglor's skin. His lips remained obstinately closed.

''I could read the tone of thy mind if I wished, thine innermost thoughts, but that becomes so _dull_ after a time. I wish to hear it from thy lips.'' Vanimórë moved behind him, lifted his hair, whispered against the nape of his neck: "Such a gift to me, thou wert, the first time I touched the stars in rapture. I had not known it could be so wondrous. So much fire, so much beauty. Thou didst _beg_ me to take thee in the end."

A shiver struck through Maglor, and in sudden rage he spun, wrenching a dagger from Vanimórë's thigh-sheath, ripping it upward. He felt it tear through leather. A hair thin line opened as Vanimórë swayed back, caught Maglor's wrist. Silver and purple eyes clashed.

''_Bloody _ Fëanorions.'' Vanimórë's voice purred even as the up-rush of desire in him banished the mocking presences in his mind. The Voices had urged him to rape, to mutilate, to make of Maglor what Sauron had wanted long ago and before him, Morgoth had dwelt lovingly on the idea of Fëanor kneeling at his feet.

_''Burn in the Hells, Vanimórë!''_

_''I already have, Maglor!''_

The kiss was a savage meeting, the collision of two wills, two fires. There was a ringing sound as the dagger fell to the marble at their feet.

''Tell me thou didst want me.'' Hands in Maglor's hair, curving down his back, over his buttocks, his hips. He felt Vanimórë's arousal grind against his own.

''Morgoth eat thy damned black soul!'' Their lips melted against one another, parted, teeth grazed and bit, tasting warm skin, wine, salt.

''He tried. _Admit it._''

''I was mad.'' Maglor groaned, his tongue tasted the copper of blood as it lapped over the long slice which began at the muscle of the shoulder.

''We are both mad. _Say it!_'' The tip of his ear was bitten gently, and Vanimórë thrust against him, forcing a growl from Maglor's throat.

''Recant thine Oath.''

''_Say it._''

''_No._'' His hands pressed against the hard chest as he forced himself back, glaring. They were both flushed, dishevelled.

''When thou dost admit it..._then_ I will have thee.''

Abruptly Maglor was free as Vanimórë turned away, went to pour fresh wine. Tremors flooded through him in hot waves and he cursed in frustration.

''Thou art not healed nor free until thou canst admit thy needs,'' Vanimórë murmured. ''Thy damned father is right. And I could have thee now, but I will hear it, Maglor, from those..._ very _ beautiful lips. I _will _ hear the truth.''

''_To the Hells with thee._'' Maglor flung to the door.

''Wilt thou still run?''

He stopped short.  
''I _admit_ I am mad to have wanted thee, and to come here. But I believed thou wouldst understand....''

''Shall I take thee to the mountains east of New Cuiviénen?''

Maglor turned slowly. ''Recant thine Oath.''

''I think not.'' The voice was ice and iron. 

''Elgalad is too good for thee.''

''I have always known that. And that is what makes him so vital to me, especially now. _They_ cannot understand love. Elgalad loves me, and I him. I do not need thy father coming between us.''

''_They?_'' Maglor demanded in sudden confusion. "Who are _they?_"

''Why, my father,'' Vanimórë's smile held acid. ''And Morgoth. Didst thou not know? They helped me from the darkness of Ungoliant, from the Void. I had to accept their aid or remain in there. And we know, do we not, how both of them wanted thee, wanted Fëanor. We will really have to _hope_ I can keep them under control, will we not?''

***

_''Thou wilt not die. Thou wilt_ never _ die._''

Three voices she remembered out of a past which was almost forgotten. One was iron and fire, one steel and cold, and one — one was loving. That one she recalled most clearly of all.

The staff she leaned on tapped rhythmically on the dusty road, one of many she had trodden on her journeys across the world.

There had been...she thought there had been northern lands where wolves howled in the frozen forests, where the villagers were cold eyed, and kept fierce dogs. There had been endless wind-whipped steppes roamed by tribes who silently offered her bread and mares-milk, mighty rivers and cities where the people's skin was pale amber, their faces incurious, impassive. There had been deserts, steaming rain-forest, fishing villages on rocky coasts.

She thought there had been kindness at times: shepherds on lonely hills who beckoned her to their small fires, a man in a forest assart, mute as a stone, who filled a pack for her.

She remembered a group of riders, drunk on looting who had found pleasure even in an old woman's body, left her lying in blood-stained snow while they rode off, laughing.

There had been villages who drove her away with hurled stones and curses, there had been a long time sitting under the shadow of a great white tower somewhere, hot summer sun fading to a bitter winter wind. She remembered a man with a stern, handsome face, whose rich robes had brushed, the chink of coins in her gnarled palms.

She was never allowed to stay in one place long, the curse drove her on, goading her as a muleteer goads his animals. All she knew was that she had to find something...some-one. She no longer knew what or whom it was.

There had been times when she had laid down in despair and waited to die while frost formed on her. But death turned its face from her and she was pushed on, an old, old woman with hair white as milk, bent over her staff, the years dragging behind her, like a toddling child wearing her mothers cloak, struggling to walk against the weight.

Far ahead, white towers and domes broke the skyline. The road was crowded, and a wagon carrying jars of oil rumbled behind her, the driver cursing, sending her from the path and stumbling.

''Cursed merchants think they own the road,'' a young man's voice said beside her. Strong hands lifted her up. ''Are you hurt?''

She shook her head, mutely and he went on kindly: ''Here, old mother, ride with us.''

She saw a small cart pulled by a sturdy donkey, a plump young woman sitting on sacks, who moved to make a space for her with a smile.  
''You have family in Tanith?'' she asked companionably.

''No... family.'' The voice was soft, the accent not of the realm. It was a voice much younger than the woman's venerable appearance. Under the thin hood the eyes were grey. They seemed to stare into the distance, or into memory. Her hands were thin, the face showed lines like the glaze cracking over porcelain, skin drawn taut over the bones.

''Then why do you go there?'' the woman asked.

''I do not...know.'' The answer was vague. ''I...have never been here before.''

Mad, the poor thing, they thought, too old even to find work. The impulse to offer her somewhere to stay was strong, but when the cart came to halt in a backstreet, and she was helped down, she shuffled away.

''Why did you not offer her a place?'' the man asked curiously.

His wife shifted. ''She is a slave, branded. Perhaps she flees, if we were known to have helped her...''

''Branded? I saw no brand.'' Her husband was surprised, ''She is old to be a slave, who would care if she escaped? She would not be worth a copper.''

''We should not meddle in the affairs of the great,'' his wife insisted. Khanad's rule was recent, and many of the citizens were so thoroughly indoctrinated into fearing Taraluk and the Isle that they would ever be wary of the rich and powerful. ''And we cannot afford to keep some-one who cannot work.''

''Whose was the brand, did you recognize it?''

The woman shook her head. ''No. It was a strange one. On the inside of her wrist. I saw it when her sleeve slipped down. A crown, three jewels in it – black, like iron. An Iron Crown...'' ~

~~~


	13. Magnificent Obsessions

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
  
**Ithilien**   


~ Eldarion would admit, though he found it slightly disloyal, that of all the residences of House Telcontar, Minas Tirith was his least favorite residence. His favorite was Annúminas. He loved the north, cool Lake Nenuial, the rolling green downs around it, and most especially the air which spoke to him of the north. It was a brew of many scents: ferns, heather, swift waters and resinous pine. The hills of Emyn Arnen, where Faramir, Prince of Ithilien dwelt with his wife, also had a place in his heart. He had a great affection for the Steward and Eowyn, whom he had known since childhood, and needed little excuse to visit them.

He had left the city a little ahead of his father, with an escort lead by Bergil, whose father Beregond was one of Faramir's household, so this was a pleasant journey for the guard also. It was a relaxed ride, accompanied by music and laughter.

It was Beregond who came to meet them; now in his sixties, still straight and tall, he welcomed his son with joy and accompanied them to Faramir's home.  
It was a jewel of a place. The land rose behind it and fair streams cascaded down to feed the meadows, before running toward Anduin. The flag of the Stewards and Faramir's own insignia fluttered in the mild airs. It would still be some time before autumn tints showed here; in the north the leaves would already be beginning to turn.

Eowyn came to the doors to meet them. Always slender, she carried her years lightly, and she smiled as Eldarion swung down and embraced her.

''We are expecting two parties today. You are the first.'' She took his arm and lead him into the house. The south-facing balconies were a perfect place to observe any-one approaching and wine, juice and platters of food had been laid out. After Eldarion and his men had bathed and changed, he joined Eowyn there and asked her if she had received letters from her daughter.

''Yes.'' Her face became grave. ''And I cannot not imagine...these months have been terrible.'' She put a hand to her brow and blinked quickly before recovering.

''Father did all he could, lady. We simply did not know.''

''Ah, no one is to blame save that turncoat who kidnapped them.'' Eowyn added a word she had surely learned from the stable boys in Rohan. ''My daughter and Elphir...one sold as a slave to be married to a madman and one to fight in games to the death...''

''I cannot imagine it either,'' Eldarion admitted.

"I thought I had lost Anwyn, and had known her for so short a time. The All Father must have been watching over her.''

''Some-one was indeed, yet she also has your bravery, Eowyn,'' Eldarion looked at the woman whom had faced a terrible evil.

''I cannot say that I am grieved that she was forced to kill this...emir, or king, whatever his title," she admitted. "Perhaps I forget at whiles that though the Dark Lord is gone, evil still exists.''  
She came to her feet in a hush of skirts as Eldarion tilted his head and said, ''Horses.''

''Elven hearing,'' she teased as they went down to greet those who arrived. The Ship and Swan of Dol Amroth gleamed on the surcoats of the Knights and pennoncelles fluttered as they lowered them in formal bows to the prince of Gondor and Arnor and the princess of Ithilien. Eldarion and Anwyn returned them before they abdicated gravity, and went forward to greet the visitors.

''Eru be thanked.'' Eldarion embraced them both. ''I am so very glad to see you!''  
He had many questions to ask, but forced himself to wait until the guests had rested. Eowyn went with her daughter and Eldarion joined Faramir.

''They both look well.'' He was surprised.

''They are both strong. Still, Eowyn will fuss as if it is one of her brood-mares giving birth to her first foal. I told her my alaunt can whelp in less than half the time than women carry babies.'' He laughed at Eldarion's expression. ''Come, they will be a while yet. Is your father joining us?''

''I came ahead, but yes, there is much to speak of.'' He fell silent for a moment, before adding: ''He wrote to you of course.''

''Yes. And I am still stunned, but I have seen the Dark Lord overthrown and the heir of Elendil come from the shadows to take his throne, and now I speak to his son. There is little I cannot believe, Eldarion.''

Thinking of what he had seen and heard, the prince nodded.  
''I feel the same, Faramir, I thought the old tales had come to an end, but it would seem not. ''

''The tales never end, is that not what Frodo Baggins said? It is only those who take part in them that come and go.''

~~~

~ With the departure of Maglor, New Cuiviénen felt unsettled.  
By now Vanimórë would know whom had bedded Elgalad and he would attempt to enter the realm, and Fëanor would, in his fury, try to leave it.

The rider disappeared into the mist which covered the crags for the third time. There was the jingle of harness and the occasional stamp of a hoof as the Elves waited, a cold wind streaming through their hair.

A raven's call echoed mockingly from far above, and Elgalad looked back to see the track dropping down to the deep green velvet of the forest and the distant shining of the inland sea. The villas and palace caught the light like white jewels.

Fëanor's great stallion leaped out of the fog-bank above, and he began to curse. He seemed to be inventing new words, biting them off a block of invective both impressive and alarming in its fury.

''We cannot leave can we?'' Curufin stated the obvious and earned himself a flaming glance which withered further words on his tongue.

''No. Each time we reach this mist we ride into it only to emerge where we entered.'' Fëanor's horse pushed past them and took the downward slope. They heard his voice ring from the rocks as he cried.

''_Glorfindel! Thou wilt not keep me from my son !_''

''Grandfather,'' Tindómion called. ''He protects thee, thou knowest Vanimórë may seek thy life. He will know once he looks into father's mind.''

''And use Maglor in revenge,'' came back the enraged reply. ''No-one, not even the One, will keep me from my son!''

''Can I n-not leave, either?'' Elgalad brought his horse alongside Tindómion.

''I think no-one can yet, unless Glorfindel himself permits it,'' Tindómion replied. Curufin edged his horse closer and smiled coldly. 

''Do not worry. I am sure we can keep thee occupied. If father finds thee so...tempting perhaps we should find out what it is he sees in thee.''

Elgalad looked at him from unblinking, apparently unconcerned grey eyes, but the gloved hand that slammed across the back of his head almost unseated him. Caranthir hissed: ''Silence thy tongue, and keep thy hands from him, fool, or I will not be the only one to make thou wish thou hadst.''

''I am with thee,'' Tindómion said grimly as Curufin scowled and urged his horse away from them. ''No, Elgalad, I believe Glorfindel fears what Vanimórë might do to thee. And I fear what he will do to my father.''

Elgalad did speak then. 

"He would n-not," he said. "Harm either of us. His rage w-will ever be passion." And the expression in his eyes was one of desire. 

~~~

Fëanor swept through the halls of the palace like a storm. Shrugging off his cloak, letting it drop from his shoulders, he kicked open a door.

''We cannot leave.''

''Good,'' Fingolfin said from where he stood on the colonnade. "Glorfindel is trying to protect thee. Cast thou not see that?"

''Vanimórë has my son, my fool of a son who fled from me, and Glorfindel would prevent me from leaving to find him.''  
Fingolfin heard something break and turned, meeting the violent, diamond-bright eyes.  
"Wert thou protected from Morgoth?" Fëanor demanded

''I died.'' Fingolfin moved to pour a pale wine.

''This is _my son."_

And Fingolfin saw it: the fear behind the anger. He held out the goblet. Fëanor took it and tossed the wine down.

''I know thou dost love thy sons, but what in the Hells didst thou think to do by seducing him?''

''I wanted him to live with his eyes open, as thou dost, not let the past rule all his days. He was not _alive._'' The goblet slammed down on the table.

''So, it was an attempt to purge him of his past?'' Fingolfin said dryly. ''And dost thou know how hard it is to live with one's eyes open?''

The fierce gaze glittered over him. "But thrilling, is it not?" Then Fëanor spun away, braced his hands against the marble wall. The swirling patterns beneath them were formed of freshwater pearl and garnet. They flowed like thin streams in the infalling light. A gloved fist struck the stone.   
''Vanimórë may kill my son.''

''Glorfindel would not allow it.'' Fingolfin shook his head. ''And thou wouldst know were he in danger. Is he?''

The long black lashes swept down over the blinding eyes for a long moment. Fëanor said, ''No.''

''Then calm thyself. My fealty and loyalty is to thee, but I will not condone rebellion against Glorfindel. He is one of the chosen.''

''Oh, like the Valar of Aman?'' The words were sardonic.

''That was different,'' Fingolfin flashed. ''Glorfindel does not want thee dead and neither do I.''

''In what way is it different? They sought to confine us, they doomed us when we would not repent and turn back. Oh, I grant thee Glorfindel is _ nothing _ like the Valar, but he takes away my choice! Even they did not prevent me from leaving Valinor.''

''Because they wanted us dead,'' Fingolfin snapped back. ''And we drank the cup of the Doom to its bitterest dregs. We went down in fire, we went down in blood and despair and valor, and we did shed _tears unnumbered ! _ I shed them for thee. I will not weep for thee again.''

"I will not die." Fëanor raised his hand before Fingolfin could speak. ''Not this time. I swear it.''

''That is one oath thou canst not keep. Ask Glorfindel to speak to Vanimórë and bring Maglor back to thee.''

''I doubt Vanimórë is any less enraged with Glorfindel. He might have stopped me, and did not.''

"No, he would not have," Fingolfin murmured. "Thou didst not force Elgalad, and Glorfindel is no fool. Neither am I. Should I say, Well played?"

Fëanor moved closer. His hand slid behind Fingolfin's hair, cupped the base of his neck, drawing him into a savage kiss.

"It was the only way," he smiled. "And not an onerous task. Elgalad needed... _this._" Fëanor's hands snapped the silk ties of Fingolfin's shirt. "And Glorfindel knew it, knew Vanimórë's jealousy. Like a dog with a bone that one is, a very beautiful bone that desires to be eaten."

They wrenched the clothes from one another, let them fall on the rugs. Fingolfin went down gracefully before his half brother taking him in mouth, feeling the hot pulsation against his tongue. Hands gripped his shoulders, he drew away and rose, backing to a long couch.

''Beautiful!'' Fëanor sprang like a mountain lion, kneeling over Fingolfin, hair crashing in ebon surf across the white skin. Their mouths grazed, bit, whispered, until both of them were driven almost to madness.

Fingolfin's neck arched back as he felt the possession which was always so absolute and so deep it hurt, the wave after rising wave of heightening rapture. He was lost as he had always been, burning in the fire which he swore he would never lose again. He no longer fought the terrible, beautiful desire. Fëanor obsessed him now as he had the first time a very young Fingolfin had seen him in Aman.

_But what a magnificent obsession. _

''I will not see thee die.''  
Fingolfin propped himself on one arm, his eyes sparkling over Fëanor's perfection as he lay relaxed on the couch. A faint smile curved the beautiful mouth.

''Thou wilt not," he murmured. "Is thy plan to keep me so _occupied_ that I forget? I never forget, my beauty."

With a furious exclamation, Fingolfin slung one leg over his half-brother, straddling him. He stared down into the face he both loved and could violently hate.

''I will not see thee die because I _love _ thee. There is no calculation in this.''

''Perhaps not consciously, my beauty, but thou art far to clever for there not to be _some._'' Fëanor's hands clasped his narrow hips and he stirred sensuously, face limned with arousal as if by light.  
''Yes,'' he growled. It was a command which raised his brother and then brought him down to impale himself with a bitten-off gasp. Fingolfin rode the brutal slam into him, agony and ecstasy indivisible until an explosion of fire shattered them both. Slowly, he drew himself away and rose, long legs quivering, all of him throbbing.

''I will not die, my valiant brother,'' Fëanor stretched and turned his head in a pillow of hair. ''But I _will_ have my son back.''

''Talk to Glorfindel.''

''I intend to,'' Fëanor smiled, subtle and shining as a cat. ''But there is a time when all words are in vain."

~~~

**Tanith.**

Khanad had found himself facing something which was strange to him and turned to Vanimórë for advice. With the death of Taraluk, and the threat of the island removed, many more people had come to the city from different towns and regions. They came attracted by its wealth, and the majority were poor and thus a problem arose never before seen: Beggars.

''There are always such people,'' Vanimórë had said. ''All thou canst do it attempt to give all some kind of work and shelter and dispense charity.'' He had gestured around the great chamber where feasts were held, the Great Houses of Tanith flocking to the palace eager to assure the new King that they were loyal and, indeed, indispensable.

''How much food is wasted here, uneaten? Have it taken out to the rear gates, and proclaim that the poor may come and take it away. Oh, and thy servants will try and sell it, make sure that they know thou dost frown upon that practice.''

Every morning and evening the poor flocked to take away the broken meats and crusts, the ends of loaves, cheeses, fruits. There was some scuffling, and Khanad ordered several of the guards to keep watch and see that the food was distributed fairly.  
It was a disturbing sight, thought Zochana. In Taraluk's time even the poorest of the city had not been reduced to beggary.

_No, because the poor were taken to the island,_ he thought as he used his spear to separate two men. The servants retreated with empty baskets as the people, tearing at food or wrapping it in their robes shuffled away. The crash of hooves on cobbles heralded the approach of riders from the palace ward and the guard stepped out to clear the street.

It was Vanimórë, Warlord of Tanith. He rode like a soldier in his black garb, but the one beside him was hooded and cloaked as if to avoid attention.  
Zochana did not know whom this was, only that he had passed Vanimórë's chambers last evening and heard the sound of furious argument. He did not understand the words, for the language was alien, and it was not his business to pry anyhow; one did not question Vanimórë since his return from the Isle.

Further down the street, two youths in stained robes with the look of bullies dragged a hunk of cheese from the hands of a frail old woman and grinning, tore it in half, stuffing it in their mouths. Zochana's shout drove them away, jeering.  
''Waste of food. She's almost a corpse.'' One offered a crude gesture as they flat-footedly raced away.

''Off the street, woman.'' Zochana stood back, saluting as Vanimórë clattered past, lifting a hand.  
''On your way.'' He saw she was not looking at him, but staring after the riders. Her eyes, too big for the thin, lined faced, were opaque, grey. He wondered if she was a madwoman, then saw the bruise on her cheek from where one of the men had struck her.

''There is no more food today,'' he said with near-apology. ''Come back this evening.''

''Who...is he?'' The question was so low that he bent his head to listen. ''Who is the dark one?''

''Our Warlord. He is an Elf,'' Zochana replied. ''Are you hurt?''

A look of perplexity creased her brow and she shook her head.

''Come back later.''  
She was thin and stooped, her bones looked brittle where her hand clasped the staff she leaned on. It tapped before her as she limped away, and the guard wished he had food or coin on him to offer her. She would not live much longer, he guessed, and wondered whom she once had been. There were remnants of great beauty in her face and strange eyes. A shame that she should come to this ending. If she was back this evening he would watch and see that at least she was not robbed again. ~

~~~


	14. To The Brink Of The Chasm

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
Caranthir leaped from his horse, stalked up the steps to the the villa where his elder brother and Fingon lived. He found Gil-galad in the hallway and the two embraced before Caranthir stepped back and said, “I must speak with my brother and thy father. Where in the Hells has Maedhros been these last days?”

"Discussing what has happened." Gil-galad ascended the stairs turned along a wide passage. At length he paused before double doors and knocked.

''Enter,'' came Maedhros' voice.

Caranthir flung open the doors and strode to the great desk where his brother sat, with Fingon close by. Their arms were folded, their faces grave.  
''Thou knowest what is going forward?" he demanded. " That father will be expecting thee to follow him?"

Maedhros lifted his brows. “Father has not come here as yet." He shared a glance with Fingon. "But yes, I do know. What is afoot?"

"He wishes to leave here, to find Maglor. After what happened with Elgalad, Glorfindel fears what Vanimórë will do. We cannot leave. The way is closed." Caranthir shook his head bemusedly. "I do not understand it, but we ride into the mountains only for our path to lead back."

“And father sees that he is held here against his will,” Maedhros finished, and threw up his hands.

“He is enraged. Celegorm, Curufin and the twins agree that force must be used if there is no other way. I think father has gone to Fingolfin." Caranthir paused and looked at Fingon, who was frowning. “Thou hast not been in the palace as of late?”

“Not for some days, why?''

“Istelion and Elgalad found our fathers abed.” The words were directed at Fingon, who raised his brows.  
"Careless of them, but hardly a surprise to any of us, is it?" He looked aside at his lover. "Thou knowest I must support my father.''

"As do I," Gil-galad stated, stepping to his side.

"I expect nothing else." Maedhros threw a smile at Fingon. It was edged with irony.

"Our father would leave here, rebel against Glorfindel,'' Caranthir snapped. ''And face the son of Sauron who is now a Vala! Hells, am I the _only_ one who sees the pattern in this?''

Maedhros raised a hand. ''I must speak with Glorfindel. Where is Elgalad?''

"He is with Istelion."

“Good. Find them both, bring them here. Istelion is close to both Maglor and our father these days." Maedhros swept from the room.

~~~

Taking the steps up to Glorfindel's villa, two at a time, Maedhros greeted the castellan, who lead him out onto the colonnade.  
“Prince Maedhros, my lord.”  
Glorfindel turned and gestured. "Maedhros, come, I was expecting thee."

"What in the Hells is happening now?" Maedhros kept his voice low.  
  
''Thy father is _happening,_ Maedhros,'' Glorfindel responded. ''He wishes to leave to bring Maglor back, and Vanimórë knows that he seduced Elgalad. I will not allow them to meet. Not yet.''

''We both know how my father will react to being told he may not leave here.''  
  
Glorfindel crossed to the colonnade, leaned against one of the white pillars. Melted jade formed the shape of gleaming leaves, and he idly traced the patterns.  
"Maglor felt he had to lay to rest that which has haunted him, which is Sauron's son, among other things. Vanimórë will not harm him."

''I understand," Maedhros murmured. "I understand more than he believes. And I know my father. As dost thou. "

Glorfindel slapped his hand against the stone.  
"My duty, my purpose, is to watch over the Elves,not to interfere with their lives. In this case, however, I _am_ going to interfere."

"And I thank thee," Maedhros said fiercely. "I will not rebel against thee. He will see it as a betrayal...so be it. I will not lose him again."

"Whether he believes it or no, I do not want him dead either," Glorfindel replied.

~~~

''Stop pacing!'' Tindómion slammed a hand down on the table, as Elgalad walked past him again.

His nerves worn, Elgalad exclaimed: ''So art thou pacing."

The Fëanorion leaned on his hands and exhaled.  
''Yes. Elgalad, I am sorry, I know thou must feel...''

''Yes, I think thou w-wouldst," Elgalad said. "I cannot even speak to h-him. I do not even know if h-he wishes to see me again.''

''Who is the fool now?" Tindómion asked. 

Elgalad stopped, leaned back against the wall. ''Then wh-why is he not speaking to me?''

''He is furious at the moment. He probably thought thou wouldst never truly desire any-one but him.'' Tindómion's hands unraveled the disarrayed triple braids.

Elgalad closed his eyes. ''I _h-have_ to leave,'' he said. ''If he knows I h-have left here, perhaps he will come.''   
  
Tindómion opened his mouth to say, ''Not yet,'' but at that moment a knock came on the chamber door and it opened. Caranthir walked in and said without preface: ''Istelion, Maedhros would speak with thee, he asked me to bring thee and Elgalad to him.''

Tindómion was greeted by Gil-galad as he entered the great house, who caught his arm and lead he and Elgalad into a chamber.

''Caranthir, I would speak to Istelion and Elgalad alone for a moment.'' Gil-galad said and with a brief nod, Caranthir left the room.

''what is it, Gil?''

"Istelion. Where dost thy loyalties lie in this matter? We are being ripped apart here, those who are loyal to Glorfindel and those who follow the High King!''

''I know. But my father is gone from here, Why,'' Tindómion demanded, "Does Glorfindel not bring him back?"

''I do not know, it was Maglor's choice to leave, was it not? Glorfindel would not force him to return if he did not wish to. But why did he go so precipitately, Istelion?'' The star coloured eyes held the silver.

''Thou knowest not? '' Tindómion asked.

''I know that thou didst walk in on Fëanor and my grandfather together," Gil-galad said. "I know that Fëanor was gone this day in pursuit of Maglor, and that Glorfindel will not permit him to leave. I do not see how Maglor fits into what has happened, or what drove him to leave.''

Tindómion hesitated and then murmured: ''I think...his own father did.''

"_What?_"

''While the rest of us — of thee — are content, my father..." Tindómion spun away, braced his hands against the marble baluster. "I know how he feels for I have not found _peace_ here either." He glanced over his shoulder. "They say the curse upon our people is gone, but it is not. It is not, for it is no curse set upon us by Mandos, but of our own blood and the fire which runs in it. All of us are flawed. Fëanor was wrong to do what he did, but I understand why he did it.''

Gil-galad crossed to him.  
"Not _every-one_ has found peace," he said dryly. "So thy father left us in shame to go to one who..."

''Yes, to another whose own father desired him. My father both hates and desires Vanimórë, but he needs...'' Tindómion sighed. "some-one who can understand him."

~~~

The sword glowed, long and deadly; pale glass filled with captured sunlight as Fëanor raised it. _Laen's*,_ incredibly long lattice structure gave it great strength and flexibility, but it could only be worked in the cold forges, for it gained strength and rigidity with heat. Naturally smoky black, Fëanor had cleared it with patient treatments and washes, and this sword was as fiery diamond.

''Father?'' The sword left a glittering trail in the air as he turned.

''Well?''

Curufin said, not without satisfaction: ''Caranthir went to Maedhros, he is not yet back.''

''Caranthir would range himself against me?'' The very softness of Fëanor's voice was more frightening than a shout. ''Perhaps Maedhros also?''

''He gave the kingship of the Noldor to Fingolfin, did he not?'' Curufin bit. ''He has ever been bound to his lover and that House, father.'' He paused at the flaming look that raked him and caught back his next words.

''_Never_ forget how my half-brother died.'' Fëanor still spoke with that dangerous softness.

''Does Fingolfin follow thee, then?'' Curufin looked startled.

''He will not openly rebel against Glorfindel. But we do not need to rebel, simply to...persuade.'' The silk of his father's voice astonished Curufin for a moment. His eyes narrowed.

''I see.''

''I wonder. But I will not have division in my House.'' Fëanor left the smiths' halls and strode to the stables. His great stallion came at a thought and Fëanor swung himself on the tall back. It gathered itself, leaped away.

''Where does he go?'' Fingolfin demanded of Curufin, who set his lips and tried to walk past him. A hand came out and arrested his progress.

''_Where does he go, _ Curufin?''

''To see Maedhros, I believe.'' The Fëanorion tried to release himself and glared at his uncle, who removed his hand and followed his half-brother.

Fëanor swung lightly from the stallions back, and marched up the wide steps to the doors. With a push, they swung silently inward.

''Maedhros!'' His voice rang from the marble walls.

A door opened and he saw Tindómion, Gil-galad and Elgalad, before his eyes were drawn to the sweep of stairs, down which Fingon was descending.

''Where is my son?''

''He has gone to speak with Glorfindel.'' Fingon reached the lowest step and met the blazing eyes straightly.

''Has he? And what has _thou_ been speaking of? How thou wilt ally themselves with one who would keep me from my son, would keep us from leaving this place just as the damned Valar sought to chain us in that gilded cage of Valinor?''

''Maedhros loves thee. He will not support any action that risks thy life,'' Fingon flashed, and there was an oddly tuneful hum as the _laen_ sword came out of its housing in a blur of light, the glowing point a fingers-width from the hollow of Fingon's throat.

''_No,_'' Gil-galad and Tindómion cried together. Fingon stared unblinkingly into Fëanor's deadly eyes. Who felt an icy touch at the back of his neck, as Fingolfin said, ''I love thee, brother, but thou wilt not threaten my son.''

~~~

**Tanith**

The shield wall locked together, soldiers straining, heaving as they pushed against the stone wall.

''Push!'' Vanimórë shouted. ''Push it down!''

Maglor watched, hearing the groans, the curses, smelling the sweat of effort. The soldiers feet kicked up dust which formed choking clouds in the air.

Vanimórë had left his chambers after their altercation and Maglor, having no idea where to go, had paced them until dawn spread from the eastern horizon. Vanimórë had returned then, wearing half-armor and said he was going out to the army. He seemed to take it for granted that Maglor would accompany him. What else was there to do?

Vanimórë had gone to Mordor, which suited his mood. The voices within him could only be stilled by the blaze of passion, but he had held back from talking Maglor. He could have, he thought, but he wanted the Fëanorion to face the truth of himself that seethed in his kisses and touches.

His thoughts sped to New Cuiviénen; they were often focused there, thus he had felt Maglor leave. Now, it was as if a wall of adamant shielded it, and he guessed Glorfindel was not permitting Fëanor to leave. What was going on behind that barrier must be quite... interesting, but it meant that neither could Elgalad leave. Vanimórë was infuriated, but admitted that he did not trust himself, not with the presence of Morgoth and Sauron in his mind. They picked at him now, as vultures tear at a carcass, urging him to turn upon Maglor and violate him. They pushed and he thrust back, his hatred of them throwing up a blazing wall of denial.

The sun reached its midpoint in the sky and, at a word, the men broke from their ranks, lifting water-skins to their lips, pushing their helmets back to show hair plastered to their skulls by sweat.

''Not much can break a shield wall.''

Maglor glanced unwillingly at Vanimórë. His face was impassive, only his eyes which showed the emotions, exploding in detonations of purple fire. The Fëanorian said nothing as the men reached for dried meat, flat bread, oranges. Many looked exhausted.

''I intend to conquer. This is where I begin, with these men.''

''Following in thy father's footsteps art thou?'' The words were out before Maglor could halt them.

''Look at it that way, if thou must. But I am not my father.'' For a moment the amethyst eyes went blank. 

''And the difference is?'' Maglor demanded.

''Is ... _me,_ my beauty.''

~~~

Sunset painted the palace a pale gold as the riders returned. As this morning, the street behind it was busy with a waiting, shuffling crowd. To Vanimórë, who had seen this many times, the people had the patient, hopeless look of those life had crushed. These faces could be seen in any city: thin, expressionless, the children huge-eyed and tearless. Now and then a baby wailed. The horses passed them with the arrogance of nobles, high stepping and proud as those who sat them.

''Who are they?''

Vanimórë paused at the entrance to the ward, looking back.

''Beggars. All cities of men have them. ''

''I know what beggars are, I knew Men in Beleriand.'' Maglor snapped. ''Why are they here?''

''They have nowhere else to go for food. The King orders that the leftovers of the palace be distributed to them.''

_Call it weak if thou dost wish, both of thee wasted the resources of Men that thou didst have. Frankly, I do not think either of thee could have conquered a world. _ Vanimórë beat back the blade of contempt with a own lash of fury. Offing his half armor, he unbraided his hair and stepped into the bath.

''Join me,'' he commanded, and laughed at the richly decorated response.

''I have told thee I will not have thee until I hear from thine own lips that thou doth want me now, _and did want me then._''  
A vase hurtled through the archway curtain, landing in the water with a splash. Vanimórë smiled.

''But say the word and I will take thee back. Thou art a good bargaining tool, Maglor: thyself for Elgalad.''

In the adjoining chamber Maglor narrowed his eyes.  
''Yes, that begs the question, why hast thou not done that?''

There was no answer, and eventually, curiosity defeating his anger, he stepped through the archway. Vanimórë was leaning against the side of the bath, arms braced on the tiles, head bowed.

''Well?''

The black, wet head came up. Vanimórë's face was pure white with pain and horror; a loathing so extreme that Maglor was startled and took a step forward.  
''What is it?''

''I cannot. They will try to make me kill him.'' Vanimórë's voice was thick, muted. ''Thou didst use that trick before, father, near Esgaroth. Didst thou wager that my...love...my jealousy would blind me? It did for a while. But when I remembered what thou didst want of Maglor...clever, father. Not quite clever enough. And thou Morgoth, thou didst want Fëanor.''

He rose from the pool, uncertainty flickering through his mind. Was he being used to enact an ancient war? No. His fury against Fëanor was rooted in jealousy, and he _wanted_ it to be personal, not tainted with Morgoth's hatred of his ancient enemy. _ And yet, I cannot trust myself..._ ~

~~~

 

  
****   
Chapter End Notes:

* Laen - a crystal like material, not in canon but used in MERP modules, as a material created by the Noldor, so I have used it here since it seemed feasible.


	15. Long Is The Journey

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
The guard of Ithilien awaited them, smartly turned out in dark green livery. Anwyn’s eye’s turned from them to the covered wagon and a wry smile touched her lips. Unconsciously her hand slipped down to touch the slight swell of her stomach. While she longed to ride at her husband’s side beneath the gloriously golden boughs of Ithilien, she felt fiercely protective of the small life within her and would do nothing which might harm it.

She watched as Elphir strode away and mounted a waiting horse and waved as the two heavy draft horses started forward.

The open back of the wagon did allow her to see the journey, albeit from a more constricted perspective. The Anduin vanished from her sight and was slowly replaced by trees spreading branches over a brilliant mosaic of fallen leaves.

It was a long journey; although the wagon was comfortably furnished with many cushions and skins, she felt every slight bump and jar of the track under the wheels. Nevertheless, she was glad to be upon land. She could hear the horses that carried the Knights of Dol Amroth and Faramir’s personal guard, and if she listened she could distinguish the voices of Faramir and Elphir laughing and jesting.

When they stopped for the night, Anwyn stretched out upon the skins, weary and a little sore. As her thoughts began to dissipate toward sleep, she felt a soft brush of hair against her face and strong arms carefully drew her near. She smelled the scent of horses and the crisp tang of crushed autumn leaves, and delighted in being held in Elphir's arms.

When she awoke the morning, the chill in the air caused her to burrow into the heavy quilts. There was the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat and she heard the stirring of the horses and the voices of the guards as they passed the wagon. Slowly her hunger won out over her desire to remain within the warmth of the blankets and she drew a heavy cloak over the woolen dress she had slept , slipping on her soft boots. Running a hand across the swell of her stomach, as she so often did these days, she might have sworn she had grown, if only slightly, from the day before. Slowly yet surely her dresses no longer fit as well as they had.

Drawing back the flap, she carefully climbed down, the ground soft and yielding beneath her feet despite the cold of the morning. As she appeared, the guards quietly greeted her. There was not the same formality here as at court. Anwyn emerged with her long hair uncombed and quite content with her appearance.

Grey smoke rose from where a fire was steadily burning. Elphir, whom had been sitting close to it, looked around and rose as she approached. He looked bright and awake, despite the hour. Even as she returned his welcome, Anwyn found herself looking past Elphir to the roasting pheasants which were slowly being turned upon a spit. Catching this, Elphir smiled.

“Good morning, Lady Anwyn,” Faramir called, as he straightened. “The meat is not yet cooked. Take some of this” He unwrapped a loaf of bread and handed her a generous piece which she hungrily devoured. Seeing that Elphir was looking amused and Faramir startled, she politely wiped the crumbs from her mouth.

Shortly after the party was once again on the move, and Anwyn resigned herself to the jouncing of the wagon.

_Just a little while longer,_ she reminded herself, fighting hard not to wince as the wheels rolled over a stone. ~

~~~


	16. Fell Fires

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
Maedhros sprang up the steps and through the open door to see the tip of Fingolfin’s sword resting on the nape of his father's neck. Fëanor's blade was at the hollow of Fingon’s throat. His own weapon was in his hand.  
''Father, art thou _mad?_''

Fëanor whirled.  
"Thou dost dare to range thyself against me?"

"To save thee from thyself." Maedhros' sword snapped out and met Fëanor's, before the _laen_ blade slipped past his guard, opening a rill of blood down his forearm.   
"Thy loyalty is to me, _my son!_"

"Yes, it is, and if thou doth leave, thou wilt die," Maedhros shouted. "Thou wouldst threaten Fingon?"

Fëanor's blade pulsed like a promise of violence.

"We followed thee to our deaths, father, but first, ah, _first_ we had to witness thine. I will do _anything_ that comes short of killing thee to prevent thy death again."

"_Fëanor!_"

The snapped word turned all eyes. Glorfindel was standing in the doorway, raging solar-gold. "Thy quarrel is with me, not thy sons."

Fëanor spun away from Maedhros, his face like an unshuttered lamp.  
"Thou. Wilt. Not. Keep. Me. From. Maglor, Glorfindel." The words were chipped from steel.

"I _will_ keep thee from Vanimórë, _Fëanor._"

"He must have been _ exceptional._" Their eyes, diamond and ice-blue, burned into one another, and then Fëanor brushed past Glorfindel, his free hand trailing over the other's chest, its lingering slowness at odds with his voice as he said: "I ride!" A sharp whistle brought his stallion to him and he leaped to its back, turning one last look on Glorfindel as he rode away.

The four brothers fell in after their father, and the horses hooves crashed on the cobbles. Fingon went to Fingolfin. There was a fraught silence before Fingolfin, after laying a hand on his son's shoulder and gripping it, leaped down the steps.

''Uncle?'' Glorfindel questioned.

''He cannot get out, can he?'' Fingolfin raised his brows. ''I want to be there when he finds he cannot, to prevent...anything else.''

''I will come with thee.'' Tindómion felt Gil-galad's eyes turn to him, saw the brief head-shake.

''Thou art a fool, then,'' Glorfindel told him.

"Perhaps."

"I am trying to save his life."

Tindómion's voice was quiet, hard as iron.  
''Refusing to let him leave, thou hast only thrown lamp-oil on a blazing fire. I agree he must be constrained, but thou knowest how he will see this.''

''Istelion.'' Gil-galad's voice cracked with the inflection of command and brought the bronze-maned head about.

''I swore to thee, and failed thee, Gil. Here, I swore allegiance to Fëanor. What wouldst thou have me do?'' Tindómion hesitated. " He must not leave this place, I think we all agree on that. Thou didst never know, didst thou, if going with him in Araman would have prevented his abandoning Fingolfin and his people? Well, he does not desire me in that wise,''

"Do not be so sure of that," Glorfindel said dryly. "Thou art thy father's image."

Tindómion's words gasped to a halt and then he shook his head and called, "Fingolfin, I come!"

There was a swirl of silver hair as Elgalad raced after him.

"I am coming. Mayhap Fëanor will l-leave.''

''He will not be permitted to, I would rather thee not with us, Elgalad.'' Tindómion looked at him, saw the stubborn set of the lovely mouth and shrugged. ''Very well.''

"Well, but if he cannot l-leave, what w-will he do? "   
  
The Fëanorion shook his head as they mounted.  
"I do not know," he admitted.

~~~

** Tanith.**

A sound from the gardens lifted Aiana's head, drew her to the balcony, down the steps into the twilight.  
The tune was delicate as cobwebs, powerful as the sunrise and sorrowful beyond measure. She felt the spring of tears in her eyes as she softly crossed the grass, and stopped as she saw the one who played.

This must be the strange Elf the Warlord had brought here. Khanad had told her that, but nothing more. She stared, seeing that he did not seem to notice her approach.

There was a quality about the Elves she found it hard to describe even to herself. Such was their beauty that they drew the eye like a lantern, or rather their presences seemed almost...heavy, as if they weighted the air. And yet she felt as if she looked through a doorway, into a time and place very long ago.  
They were ancient, Khanad had said, immortal, but Elgalad had told her Elves could die. She wondered why he was still gone, for she missed him. There was a gentleness to him that was rooted in strength and love.

The last plangent vibrato quivered on the air, and the Elf's head rose, eyes looking straight at hers; they were a blaze of silver, as strange and inhuman as Vanimórë's purple.

''Forgive me.'' She bowed, forgetting that she was now a powerful person in her own right. The Elf rose and put his hand to his chest, and returned it.

''I am a guest here, Lady, the apology should be mine.'' His voice as mellow and rich as the lyre.

Nervously, she stepped back then, with a burst of courage fueled by curiosity, she said: ''Lord, do you know the Elf called Elgalad?''

There was a pause long enough for her to answer her own question in the affirmative. She gazed at the face which was so flawless yet held such sadness it both demanded and denied pity.

"Yes, lady, I know him."

''Is he... well?''

_A good question,_ thought Maglor. What was happening? Vanimórë had said he would take Maglor back to the mountains, close to New Cuiviénen but...

_ I am afraid to return... afraid of my own father and what he is, for I know I cannot resist him..._

He had gone, left those he cared for. It was almost incomprehensible, even to him. After so long alone, he was reunited with the family he loved. Fëanor was his father, but before father, half-brother, son, uncle, he was _Fëanor_. Spirit of Fire.

Maglor had watched the Noldor embrace the place made for them, guarded by Glorfindel and by the One, and still felt a sense of displacement. Ever his thoughts circled back to Vanimórë.  
His father was right; Maglor could not shirr himself from the past. But Fëanor did not know of what had happened in Barad-dûr. Sauron had wanted to break him; Vanimórë to save him. Thus the inextricable meld of horror, of guilt, of lust.

The woman was watching, her head tilted, and he was almost relieved to find that little time had passed. For centuries, thousands of years, he had drifted in madness.

''I believe he is well, Lady, yes,'' he responded at last. ''Thou knowest him well?''

''I was a slave and he was kind to me, he and his lord.'' 

He looked at her silk robes, the gems which adorned her, recalled his son's words of the young woman who had been aboard the Black Ship with the prince of Tanith.  
''Ah, yes. Thou art Aiana, I think?''

''Yes,'' she replied. ''And who are you, Lord?''

''My name is Maglor, son of Fëanor.'' But there was no recognition in her eyes, and that made him aware of how long it had been since Beleriand, since the fire and wrath of the War of the Jewels, the Oath...

_ And Vanimórë has made another Oath. _

And at that and the memory of his furious, hungry response to Vanimórë's lips and hands, a shock of hot blood ran through him. Aiana felt it, some wild surge of emotion, and his face looked as if he stood in some light whose source was not visible to her, or perhaps it came from within, a star burning under his flesh.

''Will he return?'' she asked

''I do not think he will return yet, but one day, yes.''

''He loves Vanimórë,'' she murmured, almost to herself.

Maglor moved; a quick restless turn aside, like a cat.

''Yes, he does.'' And there was no mistaking the tone in his voice.

''You hate him?'' She sounded surprised. ''In truth he frightens me, yet he was never cruel. And I...know cruelty.''

Usually, she would not speak so. She was still, as it were, finding her feet here as Khanad's beloved, but her emotions were unbalanced with her pregnancy. She found herself prone to outbursts in these early days.

''He suggested that the King feed the beggars, try to find them work. I used to see him after he came from...'' The hate which burned in her eyes was intense. ''Taraluk's chambers. Elgalad killed one who...raped my brother to death. And so you see, I honour them both. I am sorry, I must go.'' she turned and vanished into the dimness, her robes a pale flutter. Maglor lifted the strap of his lyre, slid it over one shoulder.

''Go well, lady,'' he murmured.

~~~

Maglor found Vanimórë sitting at a great table and looked balefully at his bent head in the lamplight.

''Elgalad killed a man here, a murderer?''

Vanimórë sat back. ''Yes. I was very proud of him.''  
Maglor searched the impassive features, the opaque glitter of the eyes, the voice itself, for any hint of the care, the _love_ he felt for Elgalad, and found nothing. 

''And it was thou who didst suggest that the beggars should be fed here?''

''It is not ideal, but until something else can be implemented..." The tattooed shoulders shrugged. ''Oh, does that surprise thee? That I would have any charity?''

''I do not think thou art particularly kind, no.''

''It was not an act of kindness to save thee?'' The sleek brows went up. Maglor heard the laughter lurking in the words. He stepped to the table, hands slamming down upon a beautifully drawn map.

''There was an ulterior motive,'' he snarled.

''Which I am not ashamed to admit.''

''I was in no fit condition of mind or body to fight thee,'' Maglor hissed into his face.

  
~~~

His voice carried from the room, over the gardens, across the high, spiked walls which bounded the palace, to the alleys behind it.  
A lone figure stood there, her head raised, as if she were listening to something in a tongue once known, all but forgotten. She was the only one of the throng whose ears could hear those rich, deep voices. They trudged around her oblivious, as she halted. Khanad would not have the vagrants camped beyond the palace, and they vanished when they had collected the food.

She stared, searching in her mind. There was something... she was sure there was something...

Far away, laughter echoed...

~~~

''No, thou wert not indeed.'' Vanimórë leaned forward until his lips almost touched Maglor's. ''I did not have thine upbringing, Fëanorion. Pleasure was something I had to fight for. But thou wert a gift, as I said.''

''Take back thine oath to kill my father,'' Maglor ground through his teeth.

''I did not say I would kill him.'' Vanimórë rose and poured wine.

''What then? He was flung into the Void, and I fear it ...has unbalanced him.''

''He was not the only one thrown into the Everlasting Dark. Do not make excuses for him, _he _ would not!'' Vanimórë turned. ''I cannot have Elgalad, and yet I love him. He was restored to me, but...Hells, it would be better for him if he could love another, though I choke saying it!''

''Thou art mad if thou dost think he will love another!'' Maglor exclaimed.

''Am I? What reason have I ever given him to love me?''

''Love never follows the path of logic. Thou didst raise him and mold him – as my father did me.''

~~~

** Khaganate of Chey Sart **

''Who is he?'' The man leaned forward, jeweled chains tinkling gently from his head-dress.

''He is... interesting...''

The room was barely lit, the fire ebbed low in it's hearth. From without came the clash of a guard-change. The hour was a late and weary one, but the eyes of the Great Khagan were bright.

''_ Interesting? _ You will have to be more specific. What is he?''

''You might call him a god.'' The reply held amusement, ''He has vast powers, and rarely uses them.''

''They call him Warlord, those Haradhan barbarians.'' The Khagan of Chey Sart thrust the vellum into a brazier where it flared alight. He watched as it was consumed to ash.

''Will there be war?'' He sat back.

''I think you can wager on it,'' Pallando answered, his teeth showing as a faint gleam within the shadows of his hood. ''This one wants a great deal, my friend. He wants...everything.'' ~


	17. The Fascination Of The Flame

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ ''_Fëanor!_'' Tindómion urged his horse past the others. ''Grandfather. No power less than a god's may break a way out of here. Now is the time to think, not waste thy substance in rage.''

Fëanor wheeled the stallion so that it half-reared, its forefeet coming down with a crash. Sparks struck from the stone.

''I am somehow not surprised that thou didst follow me, though thy companion does give me pause,'' he flashed. ''What should I _think_ of, Istelion?'' The words hissed between his teeth.

''Another way, since strength and will alone cannot prevail.'' Tindómion rammed back. ''I would not see thee die at Vanimórë's hands, but thou wilt never face him, or find my father this way. Come back.''

The High King's eyes met his grandson's and then lifted to gaze further down the track, gloved hands crumpling the reins.

''Well, brother?'' He threw at Fingolfin savagely. ''What, thy sword is in its sheath?" he mocked.

''I can unsheathe it quickly enough.'' Fingolfin's eyes blazed, turning to his nephews. ''Dost thou wish to lose thy father again?''

There was a heavy silence before Celegorm said passionately: ''No, uncle, though that would leave the Kingship in thy hands would it not?''

''I swore fealty to my brother and I would not see him dead.'' Fingolfin's words were so weighted with danger that his nephew fell mute. ''But thou wilt not touch my son, Fëanor.''

''I did not touch him. Thinks't thou I would cause Maedhros more grief?" Fëanor demanded. "Art thou sure thou dost understand me? But if thou doth draw blade on me again, I _shall draw thy blood_.'' His eyes swung to Tindómion. ''My sons would defy me, my grandson stand beside me. Thou art truly my blood, Istelion. And thou art also right. There is more than one way, when strength is of no use.''

~~~

**Tanith **

''Dost thou know naught of what is happening in New Cuiviénen?''

''I cannot read the minds behind the barrier. Elgalad's, yes, if I chose to. I can feel emotions.'' Vanimórë took a wooden pin and inserted it delicately into the map spread out on the table. Maglor found his mind winging back in time, to the long planning sessions before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened again, he found the purple gaze on his.

''I never fought in it, I was too young. And they were not...quite sure of my loyalties.'' The long lashes swept down. Maglor looked back at the map. Strange names indicated regions he had never known existed until these last years.

''Beautiful, is he not?''

Confused, the Fëanorion's black brows drew together in question.

''Elgalad. So sweet, so strong, so much passion in him for the right person to bring forth...and thou and thy sire certainly did that...'' Underlying the softness was the knife-gleam of rage.

''He needed _thee,_'' Maglor said scornfully. ''I swear, I cannot understand thee.''

Vanimórë was beside him, his proximity like heat on Maglor's flesh. He stared pointedly at the map, and no longer saw it.

''I do not have to be Morgoth to stain him. Thou – thou art different. I could not mar thee. There is a touch of the dark light in all the Fëanorions' is there not?" He laughed briefly. "But Elgalad – ''

Lamplight spread in a pool over a name on the map. Chey Sart...Reaching out a hand, Maglor turned down the wick, darkness fell in the room.

''What would I have done to his spirit, to his passion?'' The scent of sandalwood was about him.

''Taken it,'' Maglor whispered.

''Yes. I would take _everything._'' Two slender hands settled on Maglor's hips, ran up his chest, drawing him back. He felt the hard arousal press against him. Long fingers slid through his hair.

''Glorfindel showed me how glorious it could be, to be wholly possessed, and _thou_ didst show me how glorious it was to take one with _so...much... passion._''

His hair was lifted, a breath touched his neck and his head tilted back.

"Thou doth want this..." It was an echo from long ago. Maglor heard himself groan.  
''We both need this. I will make thee forget...''

Vanimórë's skin was hot silk over muscles hard as stone. Maglor felt the blow of desire, that fierce ache that he had sublimated out of guilt then forgotten in grief. In an impossible twist of irony, it had flowered again in Barad-dûr.

''No...'' he growled and thought: _All I wanted was for my father to love me and be proud of me... _

_So did I,_ came the answer in his mind.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen **

''All I w-wanted was for him to take me. '' Elgalad looked into his wine-cup. "I did not try hard enough, it w-would seem." He smiled, mirthless. Vanimórë's will had proved unbreakable.   
  
The chamber was empty but from another along the frontage of the palace, he heard raised voices. When they returned Gil-galad had been waiting, and Tindómion had walked away to speak with him, whilst Fëanor had swept within, Fingolfin at his heels.

This was no peaceful place to be, though as beautiful as anywhere Elgalad had seen. It was the inhabitants which were disturbing; like living within a storm, Legolas had said, ruefully laughing. The Noldor flashed and flared like lightning, exuded energy, their hands were ever at work, and even that had a sense of concentrated, fierce purpose about it. Little wonder they had chafed in Aman. Little wonder that some chafed now.

He tried to reach beyond the haven to Vanimórë, an outpouring of love and longing, interwoven with guilt, but there was no acknowledgment. Was Maglor with him now? Of course he would be. The Fëanorion was haunted, beautiful, fiery. Vanimórë would not resist him, would not want to.

And where did that leave Elgalad? He felt the rise of heat in his cheeks and took a long drink of the wine. He had not resisted Fëanor and Maglor because, quite simply, he had not wanted to. Celibacy was alien to him, and Vanimórë knew that, but in the face of his own self-imposed chastity, Elgalad had felt he could not take lovers. Loneliness, the constant hunger which could not be assuaged, the charisma of the Fëanorions, had swept him up in a firestorm. His fingers tightened about the goblet. He finished the wine, and it did not soothe him.

From the great inland sea came the lonely sound of a grebe as evening light poured across the waters, melting them to copper-gold. A breeze, carrying coolness in its wake, stirred the rich hangings.

''Self recrimination is without worth, Elgalad.'' Fingers touched his shoulder, trailed down his arm. He stiffened, not moving, his eyes fixed on the gentle incline of the beautiful lawns, seeing nothing.

''Thou hast so much to give. To deny it is wrong, and there is no wrong in what thou didst feel.'' The voice sank into him, his bones, the tracings of his blood. He felt air rush into his lungs as if he had been holding it for a long time.

''Stop. Please. I know, b-but...''

A laugh sounded close to his ear. ''But thou thinkest that if he is chaste so must thou be.''

''Dost thou read m-minds, also?''

''Glorfindel is his friend. He has spoken at whiles of Vanimórë's fear that he will hurt thee.'' Arms locked around Elgalad. He knew the power in Fëanor; it evoked the same feeling Vanimórë did. Protection...and arousal. "But thou hast needs too, I will gladly slake."

Elgalad's head tipped back, his eyes closed as warm lips touch his throat.

''Or perhaps we can make him so jealous, we can break his barriers. Together.''

~~~

**Tanith**

The woman was desperate. A baby wailed in her arms, and a toddler clung to her skirts. Trying to push through the crowd, she was constantly shoved aside. The child tumbled down and started crying, small palms and knees scraped.

''Let me... hold?''

The voice was another woman's. She spoke slowly, as if she were from another land, and at first glance, Yanie was not impressed. The old dame did not look as if she could hold the staff she leaned on, let alone a child. As if she saw the doubt, the crone laid down the stick carefully and held out her arms.

There would be no food left if Yanie did not do something. She knew how this worked: the palace servants simply let people take what they wished. The stronger and faster would grab whatever they could take, pushing it into the neck of their robes, up their sleeves, into their girdles. The weaker and smaller were often left with nothing. She placed the baby in the old arms, and set her son upright.  
"Stay here, Hamir."

There was little remaining when she elbowed her way to to the front of the crowd, and she snatched broken meat and bread, crushing them and guarding them, hunched over, as she returned to where the old woman sat. She held the baby inexpertly, but gently, made rocking motions as Yanie tore the mashed food, gave some to her son then ate herself, swallowing ravenously.

Brushing crumbs from her mouth she gathered the child to her and opened her robe, drawing the tattered cloak across as she nursed it. It only then occurred to her that she had offered nothing to the old woman, but it was too late and beggars were not, in general, selfless people. They could not afford to be.

The palace guards were moving now to ensure the people left, and Yanie came to her feet as a shadow fell over her. She stared dumbly as a tall guard in a shining helm reached out and handed the crone a loaf of flat bread. The scent of garlic, pepper and soft cheese emanated from it and Yanie's mouth watered.

''Here,'' he said, gruffly embarrassed, before turning away. Yanie looked after him, stupefied.

The old woman's eyes followed him, then fell to the loaf in her hands. They were long, fine hands, or had been once. Now the joints were swollen and the veins were thick and purple under the parchment skin. Carefully she tore the bread, folding a third, and held the rest out.

''Good of you.'' Yanie quickly accepted it. Was this old dame known to the guard? Why would he single her out for attention, when the manner in which they usually noticed any-one was to thrust at them with the blunt end of their spears? No wonder she had not felt the need to struggle through the crowd if she could be certain of receiving something. It might be worth staying close to her. Besides, the guard was good-looking one, tall and bronzed and Yanie might be able to pick up a little more coin if the Gods were good...

''Have you anywhere to go, dame?'' she asked.

''No.'' The reply was quiet.

''I know some-one who lets me and the children sleep in a hut outside the walls.'' Yanie motioned toward the city. ''One more would not matter to him. Come with me.''

The woman's eyes lifted to the palace and there was a look in them which Yanie could not decipher.

''Thank-you,'' she said. ~

  



	18. The White Lady Of Ithilien

 

 

 

(Written by Anwyn)

Anwyn was dozing when she heard a cry go up from the riders and immediately opened her eyes. The horses picked up their pace and the wagon lurched forward. Peering through the rear flap, she saw that they had broken from the tree’s and were now moving across open grassland. Her heart warmed expectantly.

The wagon rolled to a halt; a moment later the flap lifted and Elphir helped her down. She breathed deep of the clear air and hearing the swish of a skirt behind her Anwyn turned and was at once swept up into a tight embrace by her mother, Eowyn.

No words were spoken. Anwyn simply wrapped her arms around her mother and buried her face in her hair, before stepping back and blinking away tears. Only Eowyn saw them, and reached out to touch her shoulder in a gesture of understand.

“Welcome, you are all most welcome here!” Eowyn said and moved to embrace Elphir. Anwyn drew back from them slightly and her eyes fell upon Eldarion. Not having expected to see him in Ithilien, she was momentarily taken aback.

"Eldarion," she smiled. "It gives me great joy to see you once more, I did not think I would have the pleasure until we traveled to Minas Tirith." Eldarion stepped forward wordlessly, took her hand and kissed it.  
“Lady Anwyn. You look well, thank the One.”

Anwyn was slightly bewildered by the formality, for she she believed they knew each better than this, but she merely bowed her head politely.

“Come.” Eowyn took her daughter's hand and guided her inside as the horses were lead towards the stables. Anwyn fought to dismiss the sense of discomfort she believed emanated from Eldarion. It was in his eyes when they had met her own.

Once within, a warm bowl of broth was pressed into her hands and she was shown to a comfortable seat near the fire. She might have laughed at this, for she had never imagined Eowyn as a mother-hen but after such a difficult journey, it was most welcome.

“You look well,” Eowyn commented, with a nod of approval. Anwyn knew that the blue eyes which searched her own would not miss a single thing. There was an intensity in her gaze, and even now Anwyn felt herself shifting slightly beneath its weight.

“But you are tired,” Eowyn remarked, and Anwyn glanced away.

“I shall rest this night,” she answered, not wishing to invite any further observations and was met with a smile.

“You shall, I shall see to that. Walk with me for a time, I do not doubt you wish to use your own legs after you have been carried so far.”

Anwyn nodded gratefully and rose. It was as though her mother were the wind, drawing her this way and then that and she were the leaves, given no mind to refuse.

The cool air colored her cheeks pink as together they walked towards a pasture where several horses contently grazed. One large grey lifted it’s head and whinnied gently, trotting over to them. Eowyn gently ran her hand down the long bone of the nose.  
"Snowfoot, she has dwelt in Ithilien for as many years as I have, she has a kind heart with a mind to wander.”  
Eowyn watched as the horse slowly meandered away before lowering it’s head once more. “You travel to Minas Tirth come the next moon?” she inquired gently without looking away.

“Yes, Elphir has been summoned by the King to attend a meeting of Lords.” Anwyn flushed, for her mother would already know this. Faramir was, after all, Steward, and would also be making the journey to the city before the winter closed in.

There were times that Anwyn still felt odd in Eowyn's presence. They were mother and daughter, yet Anwyn could not read Eowyn's expression now.

“It will be good for you to go.”

Anwyn found herself wishing she could be as certain of such a thing. As she had grown heavier with child she had become less and less willing to leave Dol Amroth and make such a long journey. She was not looking forward to another one, this time from Ithilien to Minas Tirith.

Eowyn smiled knowingly. She rarely made the journey herself these days. While she at times ventured to Rohan to visit her brother, she had found the White City far too _close_ in it’s design for one raised in wide, open land’s.

“Never mind,” she said brightly, turning away “That is not for a time yet and I shall enjoy your company while I may.” ~

~~~

  



	19. The Power Of Desire

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

 

  
  
**Tanith **

~ Aiana had picked at her food during the evening meal. Later, in Khanad's bedchamber, she assured him that she was merely nauseous, as many women were during early pregnancy. When the child quickened, the older women had told her, the sickness would pass. Khanad knew he was being over-anxious but though he had fathered children, all had died. He did not know that Taraluk had ordered them disposed of, and never would. Neither Gthar who knew, nor Aiana, whom he had told, would ever reveal it to him.

''Do not attend the banquets, if the smell of food makes you feel ill,'' he said and she was grateful, since she found them an ordeal in other ways. She was a slave whom had risen to be the favorite of the new king, and such a position left her open to envy. Khanad lifted her veil, kissed her. The kiss became slow and deep.

''We have to be gentle,'' he murmured, raising his head. ''Your first child. And you look tired.''

''It will pass.'' She leaned against his chest. ''I spoke to the Elf, the one who lodges with the Lord Vanimórë. I heard him playing his lyre, it was...magical.''

''Is that who it was?''

''He thinks Elgalad will return. I hope so.'' Aiana drew back as a servant discreetly stepped into the room, and bowed low.

''What is it?'' Khanad asked.

''Captain Zochana wishes audience with you, sire.''

Khanad found the soldier waiting, his helm under one arm. Zochana saluted  
''Sire, I do not wish to presume, but it is the beggars,'' he began.

''Yes, what of them?'' Was this the time, Khanad wondered, but Vanimórë had said: _Rulers are rulers even in their sleep._

''Sire, there should to be a better way to distribute the left-over food.'' Khanad frowned, but nodded. ''At this moment we need our spears to break up the crowds, and those in most need get the least, women with children, the old, while there are some who are idlers and loafers, and simply come for the free meal.''

Khanad sighed and reached for a bell pull. ''Tell Lord Vanimórë I wish to see him.''

~~~

The rap at the outer door drew a sigh from Vanimórë's lips as they nuzzled Maglor's taut throat.  
''Duty _always_ calls me,'' he murmured and reached for his black shirt. ''So sorry.''

Breathless and burning, Maglor's eyes flashed open. He pushed himself away from the wall as Vanimórë went to the table, gathered up several scrolls, and strode from the room with a wink which blazed a desire to kill through the Fëanorion. He struck the wall with the flats of both hands and cursed.

~~~

''What is this?'' Khanad asked as the scrolls were unrolled before him.

''A village, small town, what thou wilt,'' Vanimórë replied. ''Here," he pointed. "Further down the coast. Tanith's wealth is legendary, and now there is no fear of those coming here being shipped of to feed that dark bitch on the island, thou wilt have this influx. Every wealthy city does. Either it becomes like all cities, with poor quarters rife with disease and poverty, or we create a place for such people. We build it new, it will have weavers, fishermen, herdsmen, coppersmiths as any town, so that the people may work and sell what they make and produce. And in that way they contribute also to the wealth of Tanith. One cannot eradicate poverty, Khanad, it is found in every city of men, but one can attempt to do something about it. I would not advise building more in this city, those walls were erected for a reason. And if it was mine I would pull down all the houses and shops built against the wall and make it as it always should have been; a killing ground.''

''I cannot order that, there will be chaos, those are peoples homes and livelihoods,'' the king exclaimed.

''Compensate them,'' Vanimórë said smoothly. ''Thou canst well afford it. For now, I suggest here, make a temporary encampment for the incomers, pay tent makers from the treasury, and bakers and butchers and fishmongers. Have food and water delivered twice a day under guard of the army. Proclaim that a permanent place is being built for them, but that those that can, must work. There will be women who are widowed or deserted, yet they can be given looms and weave, or do other crafts from their homes. For those who cannot, those too old or ill, pay a pension, nothing great, but enough for them to live and not simply survive. The army must deal with those who take advantage. There are always those who do.''

''Have you done such a thing before?'' Khanad asked curiously.

''In Sud Sicanna, long ago. There was help for the very poor, yes, it is a perpetual problem, it can never be cured, only eased.''

''I will see to this in the morning,'' Khanad said. ''I will call my scribes, and you can advise the army.'' He looked over the plans on the vellum. ''Your er...friend...?''

Vanimórë raised his brows. ''Which one, I have so many, after all. He visits for a while only.''

"I have no objection. But I did wonder if he were here under duress. From what I have heard, he seems to hate thee."

"No, I assure thee." The violet eyes laughed. "He only _thinks_ he hates me."

~~~

Glorfindel was waiting for him in his chambers when he returned, arms folded, looking at the great map on the wall.

"What a delightful surprise," Vanimórë murmured. "As thou canst see Maglor is alive, well and angry."

"We both know thou wouldst not hurt him." They shared a faint smile.

"Maglor will return to New Cuiviénen when he wishes.''  
The Voices within mocked. He blocked them with his next words: ''Melkor wanted Fëanor, just as my father would have had seen Maglor as his brokenn fool. They would like me to break Maglor. I will not." Vanimórë stepped closer. "Fëanor took Elgalad. I am not angry at him because he could not resist _Fëanor,_ but he took Elgalad with calculation. I have sworn that he will regret it. Elgalad needs love, not to be used – and I _cannot_ claim him; that was not what he was given back to me for, whatever he thinks. He was given back so that I would care for _some-one more than myself!_'' He pressed his hands to his head, closed his eyes. ''They goad me. If I meet Fëanor, if I see Elgalad, I do not wish _them_ to influence what I do.''

Glorfindel quirked a brow.  
"I understand that." 

"Elgalad is the weakest link in my chain," Vanimórë said. "I must find a way to...rid myself of what is in me before I see him.''

Glorfindel raised his hands, cupped the hard face.  
"I sense them. Hells, thou art giving them a hard battle, though."

"Passion silences them. And love most of all." The violet eyes gleamed, flicked aside as strains of harp music came from the gardens. "Tell Fëanor that Maglor is no prisoner here, and tell Elgalad...'' He paused. ''Tell him I love him. He will think I do not, that I have released him. I wish I could, but I cannot.''

"Fëanor will not listen." Glorfindel loosed a breath impatiently and walked to the balcony.

"Some things never change. Be careful."

"He thinks I collude with thee. I wish I did not want him to live."

Vanimórë ran his fingers down Glorfindel's chest. "We both want him to live, Golden One, life would seem so dull without him."

"Thou art not the one who has to deal with him. Believe me, thou wouldst be at one another's throats within a sennight."

"Who knows? We both, after all, have very similar tastes." Vanimórë's eyes danced and at that moment, Glorfindel could have kissed him.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

Fëanor's touch was fire and light. Elgalad's bones were honey, his blood wine. He melted, and when hands and mouth stilled, drew away, he moaned.

''What?''

He opened his eyes at Fëanor's voice.

''Ask thyself why thou dost do this,'' Fingolfin snapped.

''Art thou jealous?" Fëanor was amused. He turned, arms still locked about Elgalad, whose eyes were dazzled. For a moment, they looked like Fëanor's, as if they had absorbed something of his fire. ''Look at him, so fair, so aroused, so eager. He needs a master, Fingolfin.''

''He needs a _lover_, Fëanor!''

''That too.'' Fëanor nipped delicately at one small ear, felt the shudder. 

''Thou doth play with fire."

_But of course. _ Fëanor flashed his half-brother a smile as Elgalad pressed back against him. ''He wants me. And if we kick hard enough at Vanimórë's door of chastity, we may break it. It _did_ bring him out of the Void.''

At this, and at Fëanor's low laugh, Elgalad stiffened, set his teeth with a groan, tried to pull away. At first the arms around him were steel bars, but after a moment, they released him. He almost stumbled and felt a hand steady him, looked up into Fingolfin's brilliant eyes. 

''Is that what thou wouldst do?'' he asked, without censure.

"I should n-not," Elgalad whispered. "I must not."

''But I think thou wilt,'' Fëanor's voice smiled. ''When thy need becomes too great, thou knowest where I am.''

~~~

** Tanith **

''Dost thou wish to go back to New Cuiviénen?''

Maglor turned. ''I felt Glorfindel.''

''Yes, he was here, briefly. Why didst thou not come and ask that he take thee back?" Vanimórë 's smile was whimsical; his voice became a provocative purr as he said, "Hells, look at thee. Even when I saw thee tied to that damned wheel I saw thy beauty. I wanted thee, but did not force thee then. I will not now.''

Maglor turned away and his action brought him right up against Vanimórë whom had moved like a snake.

''Get out of my way.''

''That is not what thou dost _truly_ want.'' Teeth gleamed white in the dark. ''But it is thy choice.'' He stepped aside. ''I have things to do, if no-one wants me.''

''Whither goest thou?'' Maglor was nonplussed. He was restless with need, could still feel the burn of kisses shared in a hunger which transcended all thought.

''I have duties, a war to plan, an Empire to conquer — oh, and sewers to dig." The smile was self-mocking. "Call to me when thou dost _ want _ me.''

Maglor backhanded him across the face, speechless with fury and unsated lust, then responded to a savage kiss which scorched him to the bone.

''I love the way thou dost say no with thy voice, and yes with thy body,'' Vanimórë murmured as he walked into the darkness of the gardens.

"I would call Ungoliant before I called for thee," Maglor snarled. Laughter floated back on the scented night air.

~~~

Yanie paid for the hut with her body. The man, who kept tools and penned his goats there, was taciturn, virtually mute save when he came and drew the women into a corner. There were fleas that bit, but better shelter than many could claim. In the morning, as they toiled up the hill to the palace, Yanie knew she had been wise to attach the old dame to her. The same guard came, handed her spiced meat and bread.  
  
Zochana watched as the woman gave most of her share to the children. He was not a man given to sentiment, but the strange eyes in the lined face haunted him. He was pleased at the news that a camp was to be made for these people, and decided to have a word with some friends from the army, who would be overseeing the distribution of food and water. ~

  



	20. Gil-galad, My King

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**New Cuiviénen**

  
~ A strange quiet fell over New Cuiviénen, but it was the kind of peace reminiscent of closing the door on a kiln, still able to sense the fire behind it.  
Fëanor was most often in his forge, and he and those sons who followed him remained aloof from Caranthir and Maedhros. The clash of hammer on metal was an indication of the anger that burned there with the fires. Fingolfin held away from both for this time; to him this was an old tragedy come about again.

Gil-galad sought out Tindómion when Fëanor returned from his abortive attempt to leave the haven. If this schism did nothing else it might close the strange distance that had been growing between them. One or the other at whiles threw a bridge across the chasm, only for it to crumble.

He found Tindómion in a corner of the palace training ground, exercising at one of the sword trees, and watched him, remembering the times they had sparred in Lindon. Tindómion was stripped to the waist as if he wished to tally any bruises he might receive, and his movements were violent — and beautiful. Appreciative, smiling, Gil-galad thought he was unobserved until Tindómion spun, leveling his sword before bringing it up into a salute.

''What has happened to us?'' Tindómion asked as though picking up a recent conversation.

''What has happened? In what sense? We have been re-united with those we love, given a chance to live again on Middle-earth.'' Gil-galad's eyes narrowed. His answer had been a goad, deliberately obtuse.

Tindómion sent Gurthdur into it's sheath with a hiss. ''I mean to _us,_ to thee, Gil."

Gil-galad stepped forward. "_Me?_" he demanded. "What has happened to _thee?_"

"I have always been the same," the Fëanorion retorted. "Art thou happy to remain here when thou wert a king? I agree with my grandsire that we must be permitted to choose to leave or to remain. Middle-earth is wide, and beautiful and we have as much right as Men to kingdoms.''

''It is not as it was in Lindon," Gil-galad said. "And thou shouldst know that better than I. Fëanor only makes that reason an excuse because he is prevented from leaving — _because_ Glorfindel does not want he and Vanimórë to clash.''

''Excuses or no, Fëanor will go mad here and then there _ will_ be bloodshed. It will be a kinslaying all over again between those who follow him and those who support Glorfindel.''

''There was ever madness in him.''

''Even so.'' Tindómion bent his head in agreement. "He was born to burn, and even this place has become too small for him.''

''Thank the One it is not Fëanor who was made a Power," Gil-galad remarked. "He would be more dangerous than Morgoth. As for Vanimórë, I scarce knew him. Would he truly kill Fëanor?''

"I do not know, I hope not. He fought with us, after all. He wanted to save thee." Tension and old grief sang in the bitter words. "I truly do believe that."

"I failed thee."

At that something broke across Tindómion's face like light over water. "Failed? _Never_ say that. _I_ failed ! I could not get to thee in time...no-one could!"

"I _failed_. Sauron taunted me and I was so enraged I did not see...I should have know better. I _did_ know better."

Tindómion grasped him by the shoulders. "Thou didst resist Sauron when he tried to control thee through Vilya. I was there. Do not say thou didst fail. Thou wert doomed to die like all the Noldor kings."

Silence. They looked at one another across that agelong chasm.

"That is not the issue at hand," Gil-galad said eventually. "I wish to know why thou art so bent on following one who will bring destruction on himself and those who are with him, as he did before."

Tindómion released a long-held breath. "I know my grandfather, Gil. I feel as though I have always known him, since the dreams I had in Lindon, seeing him through my father's eyes. He is not meant to be caged, and if Glorfindel forces him to, even though his motives be admirable, I fear what will come to pass. I follow him because I swore to and I love him. I hope to temper what he may do."

"Temper _Fëanor_?" Gil-galad's brows rose. He said much more quietly: "Leave that to Fingolfin."

"He is not speaking to Fëanor, and my father is gone and of his own will and will not return. That is what eats my grandsire."

"Yes, Glorfindel could have brought him back. So Maglor chooses to be with Vanimórë, rather than his own father."

"Would that not enrage thee?"

Gil-galad fell into mind-speech. _Come now, Istelion. What did he really expect? Maglor will not or cannot accept that aspect of his love. At least not in broad daylight. It is something for wild nights, and drugged wine. _

Tindómion crossed and picked up his shirt. "Perhaps he no longer wishes it to be for those nights. I am going in. I promised to look out for Elgalad. He too, would leave if he could, and I am not sure that is wise, either."

Gil-galad watched as he strode away, the same blazing, controlled energy that he remembered from long ago, the flaunting mane of bronze hair rippling behind him.

"Istelion!" he called._Is Elgalad all right? Fëanor would not force him, would he?_

Tindómion halted and looked over his shoulder. _He would not force, and does not have to. Elgalad was raised a wood-Elf, Gil._

Gil-galad cursed under his breath. _Every-one here seems to be juggling with fire, Fëanor most of all._

A wry smile flashed. "Yes," Tindómion replied. "Is that not his element?"

"A hit." They laughed, the tension breaking for a moment. "I will come with thee, there is something I need to say to thee."

"What is it?" Wariness touched the silver eyes.

"Not here." Gil-galad shook his head.

~~~

From the chambers they could see Elgalad walking in the gardens, and Tindómion went to bathe. Memories were thick in Gil-galad's mind. Even the fact that the Fëanorion locked the door to the bath-chamber was familiar. He waited, keeping an eye upon Elgalad and poured wine. When Tindómion returned, combing the damp mass of hair, he handed him a cup and took the comb – another poignant memory.

"Thou wouldst have made a magnificent king," he said, smiling.

"No-one would have accepted me. And no, I would not have." He turned. "I still cannot believe that thou wouldst keep such a thing from me !"

Gil-galad laid a hand on his breast. "Thy claim was greater in my eyes than Elrond's. I wanted the Kingship to go to one who still burned, Istelion.'' His hands rested on the straight shoulders.

''Thou wert not flown on wine, when thou didst write thy wishes?'' Tindómion murmured. ''Kinslayer blood, misbegotten..."

''And magnificent.'' Gil galad shook him ungently. ''And still intransigent. When I think of that long Age where I lived with the _accusations_ that I loved a Fëanorion...''

''Gil,'' Tindómion warned.

"No, thou wilt listen. I ask this: Art thou disgusted by thy father, by Fingolfin?"

''Thou knowest I am not." Tindómion searched the star blue stare.

''Then why art thou denying _us_?" 

''I do not deny it," the Fëanorion blazed.

~~~

Once, only once in that long age of self-denial, aching desire and love...

It had been a spring afternoon when he returned from a drill with other knights of the high king. So warm was the day that after bathing he had stretched out on a long couch and drifted into sleep, only for the vision to come. It pulled him savagely into pain, into rage, into horror. He did not know he cried out, fell from the couch to the floor. A servant bringing food and wine found him and informed Gil-galad, a messenger rode to Harlond and Fanari. Glorfindel had come and stood by him, seeking to break whatever hold gripped him, but he could not; the bond was made of blood and suffering.

Two days and nights Tindómion was racked by torments which nothing could ease, his body arched on the bed, writhed as if seeking to escape unseen bonds. His eyes stared at nothing; he gagged, retched, struggled but uttered no word. Tears streamed from his eyes, and sweat dampened his hair. His mother tried to bathe him with cool water. 

When at last he fell into sleep, Fanari went down on her knees and wept beside the bed, Gil-galad's hand on her shoulders. They watched him for many hours, Gil-galad raising him to drink, which he did, gasping with thirst, unaware of them.

''Fanari, go and rest, a room is ready for thee close by, I will stay by him.''

''But, Sire — ''

''He is my friend and companion, lady, I will call thee when he wakes. Glorfindel, I thank thee.''

~~~

Tindómion's unconsciousness lasted all that night and through the morning. Restlessly he moved, then moaned, his head flung back. There was no pain in the sounds he made, but his movements, his gasps, brought a thudding pulse of desire to Gil-galad. Tindómion looked as if he were with a lover, aching for their touch. Wanton, beautiful, fierce, he was more desirable than Gil-galad had ever seen him, his barriers thus stripped away.

He stripped off his clothes, drew back the coverlet and his hair sheeted over Tindómion as he took his engorged length in his mouth, tasting him, feeling the throb against his tongue. He ran his hands up the hard belly and chest, over the wide shoulders.

''Thou art _beautiful._''

Strong arms seized him, pulled him down, lips sought his in a flare of passion.

''Gil,'' Tindómion breathed into him and the was atop him. Gil-galad parted his thighs, lifted his legs, and felt his entrance nudged then breached. Pain and shock at the alien possession exploded inside him and he cried out, hands locked on the rigid back. But he did not cry for surcease. He was burning up, and he needed...

''_Istelion!_''

The pain ebbed a little as the length withdrew, then Tindómion plunged in again, and this time a pleasure like white lightning burst through Gil-galad. Each thrust built like a wave before it crashes into fuming surf. Both were beyond control now, there pain...pleasure...heat...light...Gil-galad felt himself clench about the thickness, wanting more, knowing he was about to break...

''Yes!''

He could not tell where pain ended and bliss began. He shuddered again and again. Bronze hair fell over him as Tindómion murmured his name, kissed him, then lay back with a great sigh of satiation.

Gil-galad raised himself, his eyes tracing the hard jaw and straight nose, the flush across the cheeks, then stared into the silver eyes. They were aware, oddly peaceful for a long moment. Tindómion murmured: ''Gil?''

''Istelion?''

With an abrupt movement the Fëanorion sat up. Sternness mantled his face like a glaze.

''Forgive me.''

''For _what?_'' Gil-galad demanded.

Tindómion pushed back his hair. ''I have been... dreaming... terrible dreams.''

"It was something evil, some fell power that assaulted thy soul. It is gone now. And that which just passed between us, _lover,_ was no dream!"

"I _ used thee._" Tindómion rose quickly, braced himself against the wall as he staggered and felt an arm close about him. "I felt...as if I were being seduced..."

"Yes," Gil-galad murmured into his ear. "But I used thee as much as thou didst me. And if this is what we have denied ourselves, we have been mad."

"But I have doomed thee. This cannot happen, it cannot have been! I will repent of it..."  
_ I will do anything to save thee. I will not see thee lost, damned. _  
He tore himself away, did not allow himself to look at Gil-galad. He would not have the strength to resist. 

"It did not happen," he repeated and slammed the door of the bathing chamber behind him. Gil-galad stared after him with gathering fury in his eyes.

~~~

''The kingship was nearly taken from thee,'' Tindómion said. "And that act of mine doomed thee. How am I supposed to feel?"

''I would never have abdicated,'' Gil-galad snapped. ''Art thou still wallowing in guilt? I am here, and there is no doom now.''

''And now I have chosen where my loyalties lie and so hast thou.''

A silence hung between them, broken only by their quick, heated breathing. The air hummed with unsatisfied longings.

"Do not use this as another damned excuse." Gil-galad's hands wound in the damp bronze hair. "Stubborn fool."

The silver eyes glinted. "_All_ thou hast to do is prove to me thou art my king."

"Prove it?" Gil-galad jerked Tindómion's head forward, kissed him on a surge of anger. "I need prove nothing to thee! Thou didst swear fealty to me long ago."

"Then be my King again. Take back Lindon and command me."

Red flushed into their lips as their breath mingled.

"Fëanorions! Why did I have to follow my father and grandsire in whom I desired?" Gil-galad spun on his heel and strode from the room. ~

~~~


	21. Powers And Kings

~   
~ Glorfindel cursed. He had come out to be alone, to think, but his eyes lifted to one window where the hangings stirred. What he needed was a night of hard, hot sex. Sometimes he damned his duties and gifts. Neither solitude nor intimacy was to be granted him, or not yet. He could feel the one who entered the garth, fire around him. He turned before Fëanor could speak, answering the unspoken question.

“Maglor is not a prisoner. He stays with Vanimórë of his own volition. He seeks to confront something that he can understand better than his desire for thee, his own father. He will return when he wishes.”

“Thou hast spoken to him?” Fëanor halted. 

“I spoke to Vanimórë.”

“And believed him?”

“I could also read Maglor's thoughts, or hast thou forgotten?”   
  
Fëanor made a swift fierce move.

"Do not," Glorfindel warned him.

"Do not what? Strike thee? Kiss thee?" Fëanor laughed. "Do not provoke me.Thou art our god, but I am High King. _ And I have never bowed to any Power."_

"Have I asked thee to bow to me? Thou wilt doom thyself again and those who follow thee if I allow thee to leave." Temper snarled in Glorfindel's words. "Believe me or no, I do not wish to see thee dead!"

~~~

~ **Tanith **

"Sire, the mason Mineloi and his sons...they are hiring people to build the new settlement," the adviser began.

"Yes," Khanad agreed. "Is there a problem?"

"They arrived at the appointed site at mid morning, they said and found footings and trenches for sewers dug and now they are asking what...er misbegotten son of a poxed dockside...harlot is taking their work, and will they be paid?"

"They called me what?" Vanimórë spoke from behind the man, who jumped violently.

"My Lord..."

Khanad looked a little amused. "You did it?"

"I needed something to do. And I wanted to make sure that the sewage drains were dug. I have noticed the newer buildings do not have them, and the older ones, like this palace do."

"Yes," the King said thoughtfully. "That is so, but the older part of the palace was built by the first of the Númenorean settlers. It is better work, every-one knows that. We have lost much knowledge."

"They did know how to build," Vanimórë conceded. "It is important; all houses built should be connected to a sewer system."

"Thank the Gods Taraluk left me rich," Khanad muttered, casting a glance over to a beaded curtain, behind which Aiana sat on cushions. He did not adhere to the tradition that women eschew politics, and liked to discuss matters with her at the end of the day. He talked with Vanimórë too, who seemed to know damned well everything.  
"Tell the stonemason that he will be paid," he said. "and that he must follow the instructions of the Warlord."

The councilor bowed.

A servant entered with a tray filled with the latest messages. Nothtar's spy network was still useful, even though the Spy master himself was dead and unmourned. Messages, scraps of news carried by bird, merchants, snippets of gossip and rumor had all come to Nothtar's people, who sifted through it. This continued under Khanad, who was probably one of the best informed rulers in the world. 

The scroll he now unrolled now however, was no scrap of paper. This was official and important, coming as it did from the khagan of Chey Sart, that mysterious realm that held itself superior to the other nations of Arda. The fine vellum crumpled as Khanad's fingers tightened. 

"Call my councilors, I will see them at the fifth horn." The tone of his voice had changed, and the adviser hurried out. Rising, Khanad walked to the balcony. Vanimórë was silent, but from the curtain of beads came a tinkle, and Aiana's head emerged. He extended his hand and drew her forth, leading her over to the king.

"My lord? It is bad news?"

It was a measure of Khanad's love that he did not feel her question presumptuous. Leading her to a cushioned chair, he let the scroll spring back.

"It is unexpected," he said, then to Vanimórë: "What do you know of Chey Sart?"

"Very little," Vanimórë admitted. "I went there once, long ago. Sauron used to demand tribute of the khagans, and received it, but Chey Sart refused to ally closely with he or any-one. It has mountains to the north and west and is hard to invade, thus Sauron was content to ignore it. The Cheyans consider themselves more civilized than any the Harad, Khand or Rhun, and was used to consider Gondor as degenerate. The Cathaians' and the Cheyans have shared bloodlines. The Holy Man who crowned thee was from Chey Sart."

"Yes. A servant of the One apparently. It is the first time any Cheyan has set foot here, as far as I know, but Holy Men have no allegiance but their God, I suppose." Khanad turned to Aiana, missing Vanimórë's brief glint of cynicism. "The Khagan speaks courteously. He said that we showed respect and honor to one of his people and that his attention was drawn to us. He would extend more than friendship. He offers me his fourth daughter as my Queen."

Vanimórë's brows quirked. "In other words, he has heard Tanith is rich and ambitious, and casting thee one of his probably numerous daughters will cost him nothing, and might gain him something."

"Rather cynical, but yes," Khanad said wryly. "He offers a dowry of half a million Cheyan golds, a weight in rare spices, silks, gems and trade. We have never traded with Chey Sart; it has always been a closed land. Anything we have has usually been smuggled in some way. They trade east it is said, to Cathaia, and into Khand. Sometimes merchants come from Khand, but never directly from Chey Sart."

All the gold, gems, silks and spices that the bride might bring with her was nothing compared with an open trade agreement with a hitherto closed land, and both the King and Vanimórë knew it.

''He knows something of our plans,'' Vanimórë stated.

''It was said that the Holy Man was so highly revered even the Great Khagan sought his counsel, but how could he know of what we purposed?''

''People gossip, soldiers taking wine in a tavern most of all.''

''Will you accept her?'' Aiana's voice shook.

''I have told you I will never put you aside.'' That was not what she had asked, and Khanad sighed. ''I think I have to.'' He glanced at Vanimórë. ''Kings sometimes have less choice than commoners.''

''Sooner or later we would come up against them and they know it. I would learn what the Cheyan khagan knows. I think I will travel to Chey Sart.''

''But the marriage. You would advise it?''

''Thy people will desire thee to marry, but I suggest this:'' Vanimórë looked at Aiana and smiled. ''By law, legitimize any children Aiana bears, create a new name for them, a house. That shows thy favor and thy love, and ensures a secure future for thy children.''

''_Legitimize_ them?'' The King repeated. ''That has never been done.''

''Thou art King, thou canst make anything law. Make Aiana thy Prime Concubine. That title here is an old one and gives her status, no?''

''Yes,'' Khanad agreed, his fingers rubbing her back.

''I know little of Chey Sart, but I imagine they are used to such things, and it is well known that a concubine can have more influence that a wife or queen. Have this done immediately, and remember, this daughter of the khagan will have no choice either.''

When he had gone, Khanad drew Aiana into his arms.  
''My dear,'' he murmured. ''He is right, Kings are not free to do as they will, but you have my heart, you carry my child, and you will have as much power as the one who I marry. I promise this, Aiana.''

~~~

Tents were going up and the air was loud with orders, curses, and the cries of children. From the backs of open wagons young men who had joined the Tanithian army and never expected to act as serving wenches, doled out jugs of water, sacks of flour, cheeses, meat and fresh fruits.

Learning that there was to be a place built for the homeless, Yanie wondered, as she elbowed into the crowd, if she should now shake off the crone. These men were not Royal Guards, as was the one who had favored the old woman; these were from the city barracks, but therein lay an opportunity in itself. No, she decided, the crone ate hardly anything, and she could watch the children while Yanie plied her trade.

She told herself that sometimes a poor woman had no option other than the peddling of her body. There might be food, water and shelter here, but there were no luxuries, no wine, no silver jewelry, no gay-colored scarves. Surely every woman was entitled to a little pleasure?

A rider watched from the slope above wondering, as he had so long ago, why Mortal's were forced into such a state of desperate poverty. He had seen poor in the camps and villages of the Eastern Men, and it had distressed him then.  
Men bred so fast, consumed so much, were blighted by famine and diseases, yet they were somehow indestructible and were now masters of well-nigh all the world.

He watched as a small black-haired child broke away from a group of older children, clutching something in his hands. The group chased him, brought him down and there was a scuffle. Fists and feet flew, and Maglor leaped from his horse and strode down. He pulled off the larger children who reacted, when they had picked themselves up, by cursing him in language which would have done credit to a sailor, but backed off warily as he picked up the boy. He was holding a small round loaf, now covered in dirt.

''What is this?'' Vanimórë swung down from his mount. His eyes went to the wagons, but the soldiers were distributing the food fairly; it was after that fights were breaking out. There was always greed. He strode over to the nearest wagon and returned with a large flat-bread and a slab of salted mutton.

''Where is thy mother, child?'' Maglor asked.

The boy tore a mouthful from the meat and barely chewed before he swallowed, casting a look back toward the camp.

''Thou dost have one?'' There was a nod and then a sharp shout from a woman in a tattered blue robe. She was nursing a babe at her breast and handed it to an older woman. White hair showed under a dark hood, as she bent her head over the child.

''Hamir!'' Rushing across, Yanie caught his shoulder, her eyes wide as they went from Maglor's face to Vanimórë's. She knew who _he_ was by reputation, by the tattoos. What startled her was that the one with him looked not so very different, save his eyes were silver-grey. They were both...beautiful, though she never thought to use the word to describe a male. She knew nothing of Elves, although the word flew around Tanith these days, but she was too busy surviving to pay heed to exaggerated stories. Unconsciously she preened herself.

''I am sorry he is trouble, my lords.'' She passed her tongue over her lips. ''If there is anything I can do to apologize...''

''Where is thy tent? Thou hast one?'' The warlord asked.

''Yes, lord, yes! It is close, if you..."

''Blankets? Water? Food?''

''Yes, lord, we have...''

''Then go there and keep an eye on the child and do not let him collect the food. He is too small,'' Vanimórë advised, turning away. ''Maglor, come.''

With a huff of breath, flinging her veil over her face, Yanie propelled her son back to the old woman.

''I suppose _Elves_ think themselves too good for the likes of us,'' she sniffed, taking the baby. She did not expect an answer; the crone rarely spoke, and now she did not even react. She stared after the two who were riding away, as if looking at something far off.

~~~

''Why would I wish to go to this place with thee?''

''Well if thou wouldst return to New Cuiviénen, or wait here, that is thy choice,'' Vanimórë said. ''But it may be interesting. And I must keep myself occupied, must I not?''

Mistrusting that glinting smile, Maglor grimaced faintly.  
''I cannot go back, not yet. And nor do I wish to stay here, it is strange to me, and what would I do?''

''Poor Maglor, adrift in a world of Men...it is all I have known. So Chey Sart, then?'' He set heels to the horse and turned it's head toward the palace. ''Admit it, thou wouldst come for the pleasure of my scintillating company.''

''Do not push me too hard or too far, Gorthaurion,'' Maglor bit, as he followed.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

~ Elgalad reached out and the bird hopped onto his hand. It was a thrush with spots dark as coal upon it's breast, and he smiled a little as it cocked its head.

''Alone again?''

Raising his hand, Elgalad encouraged the bird to take wing as he turned to face Curufin. The inclination of his head might have been an affirmation or courtesy, but the Fëanorion noticed with annoyance that no bow was forthcoming.

''What no voice, no greeting? I can understand how it must embarrass thee to speak, with that stammer." He saw the flush and continued: ''I never truly understood what a man might find in another to desire. But thou doth look like a maiden, almost a virgin. Almost.''

Elgalad did not reply. He looked back with those dew-clear eyes as if nothing any-one said could touch him.

''They say Vanimórë loves thee but has never had thee. No doubt he is tumbling with my fool of a brother whilst thou languish here hoping that he will remember thee. He will not. He has a Fëanorion. As for our father, there is little he will not try if only once, I think. Even a Moriquendi.''

Elgalad's jaw set hard. He moved away, but Curufin put out a hand and caught his arm.

''I have not finished yet.'' He pushed the fingers of his free hand into the sheaf of silver hair. ''My father loves all things of beauty, but art not the kind to hold his interest for long. Thou hast not the fire. But thou must have something — ''

The unexpectedly powerful blow caught him across the jaw, snapping his head sideways. He tasted blood. Red rage rose in him and he leaped at Elgalad, both of them going down on the turf.

Celegorm, who had tarried, watching a great eagle wheeling above, came upon his brother and Elgalad tussling on the grass and said, "Ah, Hells...

  
''Hold him,'' Curufin snarled, attempting to pin Elgalad's hands over his head.

''He fights like a demon.'' Celegorm was amused for a moment, but only for a moment. ''Stop this now.''

''Hold him,'' Curufin cast him a furious glance. 

''If thou wouldst have him, I suggest a different method of courtship.''

A shadow fell over Curufin, then a booted foot thrust him aside, and a hand was in his hair. It pulled, and he swore as another grasped the back of his tunic. He was lifted effortlessly and thrown on his back. The boot came down on his chest. He looked up into his father's face.

''What in the bloody Hells art thou doing?'' Fëanor asked in a deadly quiet voice. ''Well?''

''I thought just...to try him.''

''Try him? Is he a horse?''

''He is only Moriquendi,'' Curufin growled.

His father pushed him away.  
''Unfortunately, thou art my son, though at the moment I feel only shame for that. If thou doth touch Elgalad again thou wilt feel my belt across thy back. Get hence! Celegorm, take him and put his head under a pump."

When they had gone, Fëanor put out a hand and drew Elgalad to his feet, seeing the fury in the great eyes as he brushed himself down.  
''Did they hurt thee?''

''No.'' He was blushing beautifully. Everything about him was exquisite.

''Come here.'' Fëanor drew him close, felt the quivering tension through the tall, slender body. Silver hair gleamed below his lashes.  
''I apologize for my son, since I know well he will not, though I do not think he would have mastered thee easily.''

Elgalad felt the fire, the strength. It both eased him and brought every nerve flaring into intense hunger. _He is like Vanimórë,_ he thought, save Fëanor did not love him. Loss took him like a rogue wave. He closed his eyes.

''Thou wouldst leave here, and I want my son back,'' murmured the resonant voice. ''It will happen, Elgalad, I promise thee...And I tell thee this, Vanimórë _wants_ thee, all of thee...''

Elgalad raised his head, his lips parting. He needed to be warmed by the heat emanating from Fëanor, to burn away the uncertainty, and just to feel him again. So much power.   
  


There was a great spread of silk, flame-red and black over a vast bed. He dragged at handfuls as Fëanor took him, the fury, the glory of it, wrenching cries from his throat. He fell onto the sheets, hips held firm as he was taken, deeper, harder. Half-mad with need, he slammed back to give more of himself.

_So wanton, so much passion. Elgalad is not glass, he will not break._ Then Fëanor's own desire broke apart his thoughts, and there was only the hunger.

Elgalad came to himself laying on his stomach. There was the sound of something pouring, then a hand rested on his head, traced down his back and he turned, dazzled, sated. 

''Drink, Elgalad,'' Fëanor murmured. His eyes were incandescent. ''Thou art quite a surprise. As I think Vanimórë will find.''

_Vanimórë..._ Elgalad felt his stomach plunge. _ What am I doing...? _

Did it matter?

''He will not blame thee.'' Fëanor smiled, catlike. ''He will blame me. As I desire him to.'' And he laughed.

~~~

Fëanor had gone. Elgalad closed his eyes, savouring every ache and throb in his body.  
There was no softness, no tenderness in Fëanor's passion; it was a burning, fierce thing which left Elgalad as shaken as if a gale of fire had driven through him. He sighed, pressed his hot face into the pillows.

~~~

"Go to Istelion," Fëanor enunciated slowly. "Must I repeat myself?"

Curufin flushed with temper. "No father."

''Then go.''

''I had better go with him, father,'' Celegorm said and took his brothers arm. ''Come along.''

It took them some time to find their nephew, who was in the smiths-halls and was working on a piece of armor. He nodded in curt greeting as he laid aside his tools.

''What is it?''

''It is a...delicate matter, Istelion,'' Curufin began, and saw the flash which indicated Tindómion was not overly pleased at being addressed by the name only his intimates used. There was not much love between these two.  
''It is thy friend, the Sinda,''

"Which one?"

"The god's pet." Curufin's smile taunted, and Celegorm specified: "Elgalad."

''What about him? Where is he?'' demanded Tindómion, coming around the bench and reaching for his shirt.

"In father's bed," Curufin told him with some satisfaction at the reaction. He continued: "Father believes Elgalad should see the _other_ pet, that he may need to speak with him."

"Where is Fëanor?"

"In his own forge," Celegorm replied. Tindómion said something through his teeth, thrust his shirt into his breeches and strode away. Perhaps Elgalad did indeed need to speak to Legolas, who had experience of dealing with an angry Glorfindel. 

He found Legolas before he reached the villa. The hillocks which bounded the eastern lake-shore, and on which Glorfindel had built his mansion, sheltered the meadowland from the winds. Here mares with a crop of spring foals basked in the sun or dozed under the trees. Legolas looked around as if sensing Tindómion's approach, and lifted a hand with a smile which faded as he saw the Fëanorion's expression.

"What now, Istelion? You look like a thundercloud."

"I feel it. Elgalad might need to speak to thee."

"What is wrong with him?" Legolas asked quickly.

"He has been with Fëanor."

The prince cursed, but said, "You worry too much about Elgalad, and I ought to know. Does it not occur to you that he needs what Fëanor gives him?"   
  
"It is not that." Tindómion paused. "He is not the same as he was when this began. I think none of us are. But I believe Vanimórë's constant refusal to consummate their love hurts him more deeply than we know. And since Vanimórë returned he has not reached out to him, has done nothing."   
  
Legolas' face went still. He looked toward the palace.   
"You are right," he said. "I have seen it. Which is why I am not worried that he allows himself some freedom, here. But yes, I will talk to him, though some-one needs to talk to Vanimórë. Where is Elgalad?"   
  
"In Fëanor's chambers. My grandsire," he added, "is not with him."

"I will go to him."

"Thou shouldst tell Glorfindel."

"I will." Legolas' eyes shaded into opaque blue for a moment. He frowned. "I think his mind is far away. He may be communing with Vanimórë. Something is troubling Glorfindel, in Tanith."

"My father?"

"No," Legolas reassured him. "You know Glorfindel would never permit any harm to come to Maglor. No, it is Vanimórë himself, I believe, but he is not sure quite what it is."

"I will go to him, where is he?"

"He was down the shore when I came to see the foals." Legolas was already walking away. He broke into his effortless run. 

  


~~~

In this place of peace — although peace was a relative term here — there were no need of guards about the palace, and Legolas went over the high wall like a golden cat.  
  
Fëanor's gardens were beautiful; symmetry and order in passionate confusion. Rambler roses were twined about the stone of a marble trellis which resembled them, leaf, petal and stem. A fountain cascaded into a long pool where pink and white water-lilies floated. The paths were scattered almost idly with semi-precious stones, and Legolas remembered the beaches of Eldamar, glistening under a cold, immaculate light with crushed nacre. There was no such coldness here. Order and wildness melted seamlessly, perhaps an insight into the mind which had designed them.

He looked up. Long balconies ranked above him, hangings of flame-red, cobalt, silver and gold caught the sunlight in a rich glissade. Moving with absolute silence the prince sprinted and then sprang, catching the baluster and pulling himself up and over.

Beautiful objects scattered the chamber he entered, but there was an air of uncluttered space. The movement of light over the marble pillars and walls made the air seem made of water. His feet sank into rich rugs, somewhere a wind-harp sang, but all else was silent.

The vast bed, strewn with rumpled silks indeed held only one occupant. He was sitting up, but his head was bowed, and the flood of silver hair was startling against the warm shades of the covers.

Legolas said softly, "Elgalad."

Elgalad looked up, with a start. His eyes were wide, and a flush painted the high cheeks. Legolas crossed to him, and sat down.  
"Come." He reached out, drew Elgalad toward him.

"I do not know wh-what I am doing."

"Nothing," Legolas said fiercely. "There is nothing wrong in this, if you desire it."

"Vanimórë – "

"Is not here and you cannot return to him yet. And he, I cannot fathom his mind. He must be mad to withhold himself."

A quiver passed through Elgalad's body.   
"When we were t-together, after the war..." His fingers gripped the sheets. "I waited, n-needed, tried to seduce him. I was n-not as successful as th-thou wert in seducing Glorfindel."

"Elgalad — "

"He will not take m-me," Elgalad said flatly. "Perhaps I w-wanted to assure myself some-one w-wanted me."

Legolas lifted Elgalad's chin. "You _know_ you are wanted. And you _know_ Vanimórë needs you — "

"Of course he does. We all have needs, do we not, Legolas?"

Fëanor's voice brought both their heads up. He stood under the door arch, his eyes wild and alight as they rested on the pair, so similar, so beautiful.

"Almost twins, the two of thee might be," he mused as he approached them. "I thank thee for this...private visit, prince."

"I came to see Elgalad." Legolas came to his feet.

"Not to chastise me?" He laughed. 

"Should I? I would call this none of my business, but I love Elgalad, and you do not." Legolas held Fëanor's eyes. "And this is not so simple a matter as you would make it."

"There is nothing so simple, Legolas, as _lust."_ On the last word he jerked Legolas toward him, forced a kiss on him which indeed held nothing of love, but all of the desire which raged in Fëanor's soul. It was swift: a brief lash of flame, and Legolas stood in motionless shock when he was released. Elgalad, on his knees on the bed, looked just as astonished.

"Lust," Fëanor whispered strangely. With a quick thrust he sent Legolas back onto the silks and straddled him. Black hair spilled into pale gold, Fëanor's greater strength pinning Legolas to the bed.   
For a moment he forgot that this was a calculated strike against Glorfindel's refusal to let him leave, a way of enraging him so that he would withdraw his barrier about the haven. Now there was only the long plunge into feeling, tasting Legolas' wildness, his instinctive response. 

Elgalad threw himself from the bed. "Fëanor, stop!"

Fëanor ignored him. Legolas arched up against him, and with an intimation of disaster like a blow in his chest, Elgalad flung himself through the outer doors and ran into the corridor.

"Fingolfin!" He knew the high prince's chambers were not far away, but before him stretched seeming leagues of high, empty hallway.

~~~

"Glorfindel!"

Tindómion saw at once that Glorfindel's mind was far from New Cuiviénen. His eyes were ice-blue and as blank, as he stood with tiny wavelets lipping at his boots, the breeze in his hair.

He said the name again, softly, and something within Glorfindel shifted, moved, its attention caught.

"Istelion?" His voice sounded distant. "Something is wrong..." Then, reading the Fëanorion's mind, his head turned toward the palace — and rage illuminated his face like lightning.

"Legolas."

~~~

Elgalad sprinted down the corridor. Ahead of him a flight of stairs ended, and even as he passed them a voice called, "Elgalad, hold!"

He halted, spun and saw Fingolfin, with his eldest son behind him.

"Fëanor and Legolas," he gasped stammer gone. "He is doing this deliberately."

Fingolfin said nothing else.

The chamber rang like a bell as Glorfindel appeared, raging, and the hangings snapped outward as if whipped by a gale. Fëanor straightened, turned to face him, and Legolas rolled, ruffled and rosy, from the bed. Fingolfin and Elgalad came through the outer door. The air burned with thousands of sparks of light.

Glorfindel drew in his power. For one heartbeat, he wanted to destroy Fëanor, see his body burn as it had when he died long ago. And then too many things happened.

~~~

Far away, Vanimórë cried out in such anguish it struck Glorfindel like fist, and he felt something so dark, so powerful that it numbed him. Vanimórë's spirit was overborne, diminishing under a mountain-fall of shock. Glorfindel flung himself mentally after the dwindling presence as if he were following water vanishing into a crack in the rock. Another part of him lashed out, striking Fëanor across the jaw.

Something slammed into his mind, and deluged it with malignant darkness — 

— And the sky over New Ciuviénen broke in blood-red light. ~

~~~


	22. Sleepless

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
Elphir slept soundly, one arm flung above his head. His lips were slightly parted and his chest rose and fell evenly beneath the heavy quilt.

It was utterly irritating, really.

Anwyn watched him sleep. She sat up in bed, her back propped against the uncomfortably firm wooden head board not because she desired to lay awake at this hour but simply because she could not sleep. Earlier she had slept for a brief time, only to awake feeling her child give a small shift within her belly. It had been a wondrously strange but wonderful sensation at first; now it seemed the child only awoke when she was in need of rest.

She did not wish to wake her husband. He should rest even if she could not. Carefully she drew herself up from the bed drawing a heavy robe from the back of a chair and drew it around herself to keep out the chill. The wooden floor creaked faintly beneath her and she turned, breath indrawn as Elphir stirred slightly in his sleep but he slept on. Walking to the window as silently as possible, she pressed her brow against the cool glass.

There was a faint stirring, a movement near the line of trees that she could just see from the window, and without a moments hesitation, or thought, she ran from the room, down the stairs. A door here lead out into the ward and she crossed it to the pastures, following the pale-coated mare as it wandered deeper into the wood.

The old horse paused, raised her head, nostrils flared and then continued on, seemingly unaware of Anwyn, running cross the field to catch up with Snow foot. Her steps were far heavier than usual and running was far more difficult, but she was driven by concern for the old mare. The horse seemed to know precisely where she was going, and Anwyn fought to follow and catch her. She called softly, but the mare did not heed her voice.

When Snow Foot pricked her ears and took off at a gentle trot, Anwyn was at last forced to concede defeat and stopped. She could not feel her toes even though the warm doeskin boots she wore, and the robe she had drawn about herself did little to keep out the chill. It was then she realized that she wore no more than a simple dressing robe and her nightgown. A shiver ran through her as she turned back the direction she had come, silently scolding herself for such foolishness.

Elphir would be utterly furious with her if he were to come across her wandering about in such a state in the woods so late at night. And rightly, she thought wryly

The mare would find her own way home again, Anwyn thought and began to retrace her steps. Her breath misted silver on the winter air, and she paused and turned full-circle, seeing nothing to guide her. Shivering, she drew the light robe tightly around herself and whispered several curses that no woman of proper upbringing should ever confess to knowing. The trees about her looked identical.

She took a direction at random, even though it might be the wrong way and lead her further from the mansion, walking was better than standing still. In her youth she had been sternly scolded for wandering about in the night, for the dark never troubled her. Now she felt a cold creeping panic beginning to settle on her she was lost.

It was very faint at first - the steady rhythm of hoof beats against the frozen ground seemed to echo through the wood, so heavy the silence. Anwyn halted and listened, had her presence been missed after all? Perhaps Elphir had awoken and already sought find her? her heart lifted at this thought. He would be understandably angry with her, but she would be soon be safe and warm once more.

Drawing in a deep breath she raised her voice and called out to the group, then coughed as the cold air had filled her chest. She heard a shouted response and the hoof-beats quickened into a gallop. She saw several riders moving swiftly towards her and drew aside from their path, for she saw that her husband was not among them. Their livery bore an emblem of a white tree framed by seven stars, and she stared at them dumbstruck. _Gondor. ~_

~~~  



	23. The Bonfire Of Jealousy

 

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ Sathari drew the night-robe about herself as a breeze sent the torch streaming. The city lay quiet under the stars. Her slippered feet were silent as she walked to the baluster and stared out, her hands clenched on the stone.

There was a hush of cloth. The rough, kind voice of Ulela, her chief maidservant said, ''Come child, the wind has changed, it is cold.''  
She laid an arm about the Sathari's shoulders and lead her in, closing the folding doors on the night. In the chambers, the air was warm and perfumed; braziers cast dim light over the wall-hangings and Sathari's feet sank into plush fox pelt as she crossed to the bed and sat down, her hands in her lap.

''It may not be as bad as you fear.'' Ulela straightened the embroidered coverlets and plumped the pillows.

''The Haradhan are barbarians. Forever at war.''

''Your father would not marry you to a barbarian. This is different.'' The maid soothed as she removed the soft shoes and helped her mistress into bed. ''They say these people, the King, is of the blood of the lost land of Númenor.''

''Which was destroyed. I know why I am being sent there.''

So did Ulela. The Khagan was blessed with many children. He married his daughters to his lords and sometimes to Khand or far Cathai, and his sons were generals or sat on the High Council. He expected beauty in his offspring and by the standards set by Chey Sart, his fourth daughter was not classically beautiful. Her mouth was wide and generous, her nose faintly aquiline and her brows would have been thick and strongly marked had not prevailing fashion dictated they be plucked.  
It was not a face which inspired desire, the features were too hard, but she had good thick hair and a generous figure. Her unmarried state, in a land where girls were contracted as soon as they achieved puberty, was an embarrassment to her. She was expendable and she knew it. But she might yet have a chance to prove herself a loyal daughter.

  
~~~

  
The eagles flew into the rising sun.  
It's light poured across the world, drawing mountains, rivers, dark forest out of the blanket of the night. Color blushed under it's touch, umber, green, blue and white. Before them reared a range of mountains faulted and folded in the Shaping of Arda, climbing to peaks of white-gold stone, arid, savage. Maglor saw chasms and sun-seared canyons. There was no greenery until they dropped eastward, and Chey Sart unrolled before them.

The mountains tumbled down to forest which opened onto plains. A rich land, Maglor thought as the eagles began to circle before coming down to earth.

That had been an experience he would cherish he thought, as he gravely thanked the one who had carried him. Offspring of Gwaihir, had said Vanimórë, descended from Thorondor and the mighty birds who had dwelled in the Encircling Mountains about Gondolin. Maglor had seen Thorondor when he bore Fingon and Maedhros from Thangorodrim, and he found his mind going once again to his brothers, his father, wondering what passed in New Cuiviénen.

He had also wondered why Vanimórë chose to travel this way; as a Valar he might go unclad, move through distances in an eye-blink.

"I need to see the lay of the land," had been the reply. "I do not trust maps unless I have drawn them myself."

The eagles lifted off, down-drafts beating from their golden-brown wings. They would hunt, and come at Vanimórë's call.

They had come down on a hill which dropped to lush pasture land. There was a village in the distance, surrounded by a wall. Cattle grazed and the air was heavy with morning mist. Maglor breathed deeply.

There were roads here, paved and cambered, carrying many people both on foot, in wagons and mounted. Their robes were brightly coloured, and decked with silver or copper discs which chimed as they moved. It gave the impression of a land long at peace, rich, and ancient. Hills were crowned by tall towers, villages girdling their feet, peasants worked in fields, drove livestock to markets. They moved aside as nobles passed in palanquins shielded by curtain, shouldered by a dozen burly slaves.

Hooded, cloaked and on foot, Vanimórë and Maglor joined the throngs for a time before leaving the road near a jumble of rocks. Sitting in their shade, Vanimórë unhooked a wineskin and handed it to Maglor.

''Where do we go?'' he asked, as the silence stretched.

''Keresh. The city of the Great Khagan. It is far north but I wanted to get a...feel for this land.''

''It is peaceful, and wealthy, I have seen no soldiers,'' Maglor replied. "That is _my_ feeling."

"This far south I doubt one would need a great army. I looked for passes through those mountains and saw none. I want my forces to move swiftly, not become stuck in pathless mountains tormented by heat and cold. But a nation does not become rich and peaceful without its army. We will see more troops as we go north." He sat back. "When night falls I will call the Eagles. Keresh is hundreds of leagues north.''

  
~~~

  
''He is here.''

The khagan leaned forward.

''Here?''

''I sense him. You think I would not?'' Pallando replied dryly.

''And so?''

''And so, nothing, old friend. We wait. He is not with an army.''

''Does he need one?''

''Not really. But he has his own rules. He would consider it unfair to use power.'' Pallando laughed slightly. ''Your daughter is apprised of her duties?''

''She is loyal to me, she knows how to serve her country. Spies can only see and hear so much, a queen is in a far better position.''

''If she is favoured.'' Pallando picked up his wine-cup. ''And any clever woman can charm a young man if she has the wit.''

The khagan shrugged. ''It will not matter much if she fails, will it? I have you.''

  
~~~

  
The city filled the valley.  
Each side mountains climbed, and at the head of it loomed the palace. It seemed a partly delved cliff which reared up at the head of the valley, an edifice of polished black marble. The road hugged a wall as it dog-legged up, providing perfect points for defenders to repel an attack. Vanimórë guessed that the wall bore arrow slits and pipes. He was rather impressed. Another guess was proved correct when he saw that the rulers of Chey Sart had not, as it were, backed themselves into a corner; ways of escape had been tunneled through the mountain.

He could have surveyed this land for years but there were other ways of gathering information, and he ironically saluted the dead Nothtar who's network of spies proved so useful.

But no spy had reported the sense he felt here, familiar and unexpected, of power.

~~~

On the journey back, they halted for the eagles to hunt and rest. Vanimórë said nothing. He seemed to have withdrawn into himself. And there, in the fire-and-darkness of his soul, he battled with the two minds he had invited in to escape Ungoliant.  
At times the mind was subtle, and that was his father, at other times iron and hate. That was Morgoth. Sauron desired him to break Maglor, keep him as his fool and buffoon. Morgoth dreamed of Fëanor as his slave and plaything. They wanted him to lose control, to rape and to hurt. Was he so sure he would not do so in the throes of lust?  
And so, he fought.

_I will not become Morgoth. _

Taunting laughter echoed in his mind as the green, vine-clad hills of Tanith climbed out of the horizon.

The last brightness in the sky faded as he entered the palace with Maglor, and immediately went to the bathing chamber, ordering food and wine. Maglor waited and then bathed himself. Usually this would garner some teasing comment calculated to enrage, but tonight Vanimórë was silent. Maglor had spent so long alone that muteness did not trouble him, but with Vanimórë one had to be suspicious of what he was thinking. Yet still Maglor was startled when he suddenly came to his feet. His hands clenched at his side.

''What?'' Maglor demanded. ''What is it?''

Vanimórë could not see into New Cuiviénen but he could feel the emotions of those there, and Elgalad's clearest of all. He had no doubt what was happening, and with whom.

''_thy damned father._'' Came through his teeth. Red-black fire burned in his eyes.

_My father, and Elgalad..._

''Does he purposefully seek to enrage me?''

Maglor did not answer. His father might have more than one motive, but at least one was simple desire. Elgalad possessed all the earthy passion of the Sindar. It was not the fury of the Noldor, but it was as wanton and as deep. 

''I will break Fëanor for this!"

Maglor's took one step back, then lashed out and his foot caught Vanimórë across the jaw. The wet river of raven hair spilled over his face and then fell back as he turned his head. Blood beaded at the corner of his mouth.

''Thou wilt not.''

Vanimórë turned away. Maglor leaped at him and, whirling back to face him, Vanimórë caught him in his arms.

''I know what he is doing!''

''He is giving Elgalad what thou wilt not, because thou thinkest thyself so damned mighty that thou wouldst ruin him!''

''I _would_ ruin him.''

''It is Elgalad that will break if thou withhold thyself forever. Cool off. Thou wilt not harm my father.''

''How wilt thou stop me?'' The question was curious.

''I will not have to,'' Maglor said, knowing it. ''If thou didst truly wish to strike at his heart thou wouldst slay _me._." He lifted his brows. "Not so? Thou art merely jealous that my father tastes Elgalad when thou hast not, and that Elgalad enjoys it. This rage, is it even thine? Art thou not fighting _them?_'' He flashed the last words.

''The jealousy at least is very much my own emotion, I assure thee.'' Breast to breast they stood, panting. ''Morgoth would not want Fëanor dead, but broken, yes...'' On the last word he took Maglor's legs from under him and went down on hands and knees over him. As Maglor pushed himself up, his lips met Vanimórë's, and he froze. Fire swept through him in a flood-tide.

''...as Sauron wanted thee..._broken._''

''I should have died,'' Maglor whispered against the hard mouth, his own parting on an exhalation of ragged breath.

''Thou wouldst have, but for me. I know what he did to thee.'' The kisses were savage as animals biting, fierce between the broken words.

''Do not pretend that there was...'' Maglor's head tilted back. He growled as teeth and lips traced down his neck, ''...there was any _nobility_ in thine actions.'' His fingers locked on the strong back .

''I would not see thee die, last of thy House. There was _some_ nobility, grant me that...and a very great deal of desire.'' The tormenting kisses moved down. The tunic slid from his shoulder. ''I needed thee...''

Maglor let his hands slip through the cascade of loose hair, feeling the tongue flick over his nipples. Teeth nipped and teased. He arched up.

''I _need_ thee now.'' It was a purr against his ear, before their lips met again.

''_No..._'' Maglor loosed the belt from Vanimórë's breeches, felt the steel buttons of his own part, his boots pulled from his feet. He raised himself, turned away with an oath — and found himself slammed forward into a couch.

''I loathe thee with all my heart!'' Flesh touched flesh, jet hair drowned in raven.

''Mmm..._stimulating,_ is it not?''

Maglor closed his eyes. A gasp forced itself through his teeth as he was inexorably, wonderfully plundered. Vanimórë was anointed with oil, but was so thick, so heavy within him. His cry of denial became one of need.

So hot, so tight, throbbing around him, hardening him the more, until that itself was agonizing...deep groans, breathless words...Maglor's dark beauty was intoxicating. So much passion, so much hate...

''Beautiful..._bloody_ Fëanarion.'' The words were clawed into roughness. Both rose higher, burning into the heart of starfire until their world shattered into glory.

And the voices were silent.

Vanimórë lay back, feeling their rage, but they were separated from him by the fierce wall of pleasure and impotent.

Is that what it was? Had it been built long ago, this barrier, when he had determined that violation and degradation would not emasculate him? And the first true pleasure had been with Maglor. Two sparks had met and detonated into a conflagration in the darkest place in Middle-earth.

He smiled luxuriously, stretching. It did not mitigate his rage, but for the moment he felt peace, as he had in Mordor, after the storms which left them both shaken.

Maglor came to his feet in a whirl of hair and long limbs and stalked to the doorway to the bathing room. The perfumed water washed away that rich scent of sandalwood, the musk of coupling but not his own fury at himself, and when he dried himself it was stoked to a heat which was read to boil over and scald all that it touched.

Vanimórë slept.

It was the first time Maglor had seen him at rest. The violet eyes were unfocused, his body utterly relaxed. He was beautiful, lethal, mad. _ And is not mine own father mad?_

A quiver shook through him. He startled the guards as he stormed from the palace and walked into the darkness. Some time later came the peerless sound of harping. ~

~~~


	24. Odd Hour, Strange Company

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
“Lady, Why are you here?” one of the soldiers demanded, as he reined in. His sword had come from it's sheath with a speed that bespoke much practice. Her lips moved but no words emerged, she was too overcome by relief and surprise. Several more solders drew up and under their curious stares she felt foolish and exposed.

“Lady Anwyn.” The deep voice was known to her and even as she turned towards it she was already bowing before the King.

“Sire,” she managed, attempting to master herself as she shivered with the cold.

“Lady, you may rise.”

She saw a hand extend itself and and gingerly accepted it.

“Thank you, Sire,” she murmured.

“The hour is late to walk alone in the woods,” Elessar remarked though a faint spark of amusement lit his eyes and Anwyn’s lips drew into a thin line of chagrin. There was no censure in his voice, though, only, she thought, concern. Wordlessly he unfastened the brooch that clipped his traveling cloak at his shoulders. A green stone flashed in the dim light. Anwyn raised her hands to refuse but the king ignored her faint protest and draped the cloak about her.

For a long moment Anwyn was still, as though the weight of the garment held her to the ground. It carried the scent of the King, horse-flesh, and of wood smoke. It was a gesture that told much about the man.

“Thank you,” she murmured, unable to summon more eloquent words.

The expressions of the King’s men however, were very eloquent. Anwyn lifted her face with a look of challenge.

“I do not think it wise to linger here,” Elessar nodded to a guard who stood holding the reins of his horse. “Lady, I can help you to ride?”

Not since she was a young child had Anwyn ever required help to mount a horse. She was uncomfortably aware of her large belly, but the horse's pace was very smooth. The King walked quietly beside her. He seemed, if she judged his expression correctly, to enjoy the walk, but she felt guilty for taking his mount.

Warmer now, wrapped in the fur-lined cloak Anwyn studied the king more closely. He did not appear to feel the chill at all, and might have been talking a leisurely stroll.

Ahead, she at last saw the warm glow of torches about the home of the Prince. It was clear that despite the hour there were now many awake. As they drew nearer the guards called out the king's arrival.

Strong hands helped her to dismount and held her by the shoulders for a moment in the flare of the torchlight. It was a strange homecoming, she thought. ~

 

~~~  



	25. Even The Strong Can Weep

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
**Tanith**

 

  
~ The harping drew her. She had never heard such a sound before, but it evoked a feeling within her of something long lost or known only in dream. The faint luminescence of sea and sky silhouetted the one who played, and his face glowed of itself with a muted radiance, light welling through marble. He stopped, the last note whispering into the sigh of the ocean, and turned his head. His hair lifted in a banner of darkness.

Maglor gazed at the old woman. Something once beautiful looked out of a withered face, and did not understand what the years had done to it. His rage at himself, at Vanimórë was pushed aside as he saw how frail she appeared.

''Lady,'' He rose. ''May I help thee?''

She did not answer for a long time. He thought her simple-minded with age, that last indignity visited upon elderly Mortals.

''You..are...Elf?'' The words were awkwardly formed, as were his own when he first spoke an alien tongue, but the tone was mellow. Her eyes were too big for her face, searching his intently. They were grey, and reminded him of some-one else. He could not think who. 

''Yes, lady.''

A frown furrowed her brow, deepening the creases in her skin as if she sought for an elusive memory. He laid a hand on her back for support, felt the lightness and fragility of her; an ancient bird, hollow-boned under tattered plumage.

''Like...him?''

_Him._

''Yes,'' he replied, for he did not think he could explain to her the lineage of Sauron's son. Her mind was as clouded as her eyes. She was ancient, walking the last steps to death.

''Shall I play to thee?'' he asked, and an expression came over her face, that of a child given a gift they had not expected. He helped her to sit down and offed his cloak, draped it around her shoulders.

Without conscious thought he strayed into the Noldolantë, but did not sing. She would not understand the words. Bitter memory and more present guilt submerged him until he played without conscious thought. Dawn began to lift the night to the east, and when he came from himself he looked up to see the thin face glossed with tears.

''Forgive me,'' he murmured, and her eyes looked through him, beyond him. He helped her to her feet. She was so light he wondered that the freshening breeze did not tumble her over, and closed the robe more securely about her, offering his arm.  
Hesitantly, she put out her clawed hand, leaned heavily on the staff. The rough homespun of her sleeve slipped back to show a thin arm, loose skin over stick-thin bone.  
  
Maglor froze. An exclamation hissed from his lips, and his fingers caught her wrist. The brand was vivid and stark against the wrinkled ivory flesh. A black crown, bearing three jewels...an Iron Crown.

''No... no...'' He pushed back her hood, exposing a spill of frost-white hair, and thrust it aside to reveal her ears, delicate, leaf-shaped.

''Angband...Thou art _Elven._''

~~~

Yanie belched as she swayed into the tent, humming a snatch of bawdy song. Coins clinked in the scrip at her girdle, and her mind floated in a haze of wine. She squinted through the dimness. It was almost morning after a very good night. She would sleep now, and later return to the city for another day of drinking and roistering with off-duty soldiers. They were generous enough — and why not, in such a rich place? — to ply her with wine.

''Eh, old dame, best line up for the food carts.'' She belched, crawled to her palette, then as a thought nudged her, groaned and pushed herself up. When had she last fed the babe? Not yesterday — no, it must have been. She was a good mother, and even had she not, babies were tough creatures. Anyway, the old hag would have found milk. Crones were like that. Even when their bodies were dried-up husks they still retained the mothering instinct. She dropped back down, and was snoring when Hamir woke.

He was used to his mother spending her days and nights away. She was happier, but she smelled of wine, and the reek he associated with drunken men. The old one did not smell, there was an odd, fresh scent about her which he liked. She was too bony to snuggle against, but was comforting, and would rock him, smooth his back. He glanced around but could not see her, and jumping up, he hooked back the tent flap.

Early sunlight illuminated the interior. Stepping over his mother's snoring form, he knelt beside the bundle of his tiny sister. She was warmly wrapped and sleeping now, although she had wailed all night. Hamir knew she was hungry, and his mother could nurse her now. Her tiny head lolled back, and he stopped and put her gently down, drawing back the shawls. She was cold.

''Mother!" he yelped. "Mother.''

Yanie came awake with a snort and an oath.

''What is it, Hamir? Can I get no peace?'' She blinked at him and then at the baby, and snatched it up. She had lost one before and she knew death when she saw it.

''Where is the crone?''

The boy shook his head.

''She killed her," Yanie shrieked.

Still flown on wine, she fell into the swift anger of the drunkard, mingled with a flood of tears. Her wails pierced the calm of the encampment as she hugged the baby to the breasts whose ache she had ignored, letting the soldiers drink of her milk while she downed wine and told herself that soon she would feed the child, soon...when she got back, when she had more coin.

The old woman had tried to feed the child, Hamir knew, but Beka had been sickly long before then, born in poverty and before her time. Perhaps she would have survived with better nursing, perhaps not, it was not uncommon for infants to die, after all.

''The Eye, she put the Eye on her, the crone did!'' Guilt was not something Yanie was comfortable with feeling. It had to find somewhere else to alight, some-one else to blame. It was _not_ her fault that the child had died while in the care of another. The crone should have looked after her.

A crowd was gathering, shaken from slumber.

''The white haired one?'' demanded a beefy man with a shag of hair, and a the dull sheen of a bully in his eyes. His cronies joined him. There were many incomers like this, lured to Tanith by the promise of easy wealth which meant, for many, robbery or picking pockets. They were in the minority, but enough to cause the city guard a headache, since such a thing was new to them. Tanith had been orderly for a long time.

''Yes, the old witch, I left my babe with her and she is dead, and the woman gone.''

Mothers looked around fearfully, drawing their own children close. Men shuffled, older women with hard, pinched faces glared accusation at no-one and every-one.

''We'll find her. Keep your children near, mothers,'' bellowed the man, and the mob surged from the encampment. The leaders, like Yanie were pot-valiant and at the truculent stage. Some carried wine-skins. Wine was cheap and plentiful in Tanith. A day's work on the new town ensured most of them could be drunk each night.

~~~

The wave of noise caused Maglor to turn. To his bemusement he saw a great crowd running toward him, uttering garbled cries which he could not understand. It was not in his nature to flee, and he was shocked by the mark he had just found on the old woman's arm. The Iron Crown. Morgoth's insignia.

''Come.'' He put an arm about the frail shoulders, turned toward the palace.

''Witch,'' screamed a woman. "There she is."   
Something flew through the air and caught Maglor on the shoulder. He spun, eyes blazing. The mob faltered, growling as one great beast.  
''Her. She killed my babe!''

Missiles began to fly. Maglor snarled, turning to protect the woman, feeling the stones bruise his back and arms. One clipped his head. Pain lanced through his skull. Then he was fighting for his life. Faces loomed up. He smashed them away with fists and feet. Blood misted the air. He could see nothing but vicious, blurred eyes, open mouths. Where was the woman?

_Vanimórë! _

His shouted name slammed Vanimórë from rest. He found himself on his feet, every sense blazing. Morgoth's presence was amused, and he wondered what caused such an emotion. He felt pain, rage, heard words from Glorfindel and ignored them, concentrating on the one whom had called to him.

Maglor.

There had been horror in that cry, desperation deeper than personal fear.

_What in the Hells...? _

Soldiers leaped from their pallets as the great horn of the city sounded the alarm. Zochana, about to come off duty, snapped orders and raced from the palace, his head ringing with the Warlord's mind-shout. Even as he ran, he could see the clot of people, hear cries, and wondered what in the Gods' names was happening. The howls became screams as two scimitars shirred through flesh and bone, sending the mob into a panic. Around Maglor men lay like windrows. Snapped necks, broken knees and shattered faces were a mute, final testimony to his rage. Red ran through his hair, streaked his face.

''_Cease!_'' The word broke in the air like a thunderclap, cracked through the ground. Silence fell as blood-spattered and savage, Vanimórë strode through the crowd. They parted like a field of maize before a scythe.  
The thick group whose concentration was fixed on something in their midst, began to give back, faces of mindless savagery becoming masks of fear.

Maglor shouldered through them, met the violet eyes over the remains of what had once been an old woman. He could see the anger in Vanimórë, but also puzzlement. His own mind hummed with fury and grief as he knelt and picked up the thin wrist, wiping blood from it.

He said nothing. There was no need.

Vanimórë went down opposite him, touched the brand of the Iron Crown, but still he was bewildered. Was this what remained of a broken Elven thrall who had somehow come to Tanith only to die?

Her face was pulped into ruin by the impact of fists and rocks. One eye was gone, the other lost in the wreckage. Great stains of scarlet blotched the coarse robe. She was, dreadfully, still alive. Her broken body twitched and shuddered like a smashed cricket.

''Hells...who was she?'' Vanimórë whispered.  
And he heard Sauron laugh.

The woman's one grey eye opened. In the raw meat of her face, something split which had once been a mouth, and there was a rasp of air.

''B-B-br-brother." She was looking at Vanimórë. "K-kill m-me.''

Maglor froze.

The sky, the sea and stars seemed to rush into Vanimórë. He was at the center of a world which...stopped.

''_P..Please...V-Vani..mórë..._''

Horror rose up in him. It seemed to rise forever, out of a bottomless chasm into which he never allowed himself to look. But he had...He had... 

_killed her..._

She had been beautiful, marked as he was, to be a Slave, and he had killed her. He saw her now as he had seen her then: tall, white with fear, adorned in finery from fallen Nargothrond.

_''Dost trust me, Vanya?''_

_''Thou knowest I do,''_ she had said. Before he snapped her neck.

Something swelled within him, it grew and grew, pressing against his lungs, his breastbone, forced itself into his brain.

''Vanya.'' The word had no strength.

Morgoth's voice spat dark satisfaction:  
_She did not die, fool. Her soul was chained to her father's, as was thine. She walked the world, forever, becoming old and never dying, trying to find the brother she loved. The brother who murdered her. And now she has found him. Who says old tales do not end happily? _

''Vanya.'' Steel flashed in the sunlight as Vanimórë drew a knife from his thigh-sheath, and slipped it into her heart.

Her body stiffened. The dreadful twitching stopped. Her eye was fixed on his.

A gull called, very high up.

''What is happening?'' Zochana whispered to Cartha, as the air around Vanimórë wavered with heat.

''Shields. Behind your shields,'' Cartha yelled.

Fire exploded outwards. The murderous crowd became living torches. Maglor felt it only as a sense of warmth. He saw men and women burn like candles, fall to blackened bones. He could not feel pity, not then, with the woman mutilated and dead at his feet. Vanimórë's sister. The flames washed briefly against the shields, then withdrew. The air stank of charred flesh.

''Vanya... I did not know. I thought I had saved thee.'' Vanimórë sounded like a youth, helpless, uncomprehending. Maglor felt as if he were looking back through the Ages, seeing Vanimórë as he had been. His throat closed in pity and then, even as he watched, the emotion was shut away. Violet eyes became red-black. Tears spilled again and again from under the heavy lashes.

"Why did I not know?"

Morgoth had waited for this moment. Now he roared like a hurricane into Vanimórë's undefended soul.

''At last.'' His voice was a thunder of power as he seized Maglor's wrist.  
The air concussed as they vanished. ~

~~~


	26. Love And Fury

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ The yard was ablaze with the light of torches.  
Anwyn was aware of how strange she must look, dressed in her night clothes beneath the King’s heavy cloak but she forgot as she saw Elphir running toward her, and she quickly explained how she had become lost, and then found.

Without another word, Elphir lead her into the house and up the stairs to their chamber. Once inside he bolted the door.

The fire that had been slowly dying was coaxed to life again as Elphir added logs. They sent up a spray of sparks. Anwyn lowered herself into a chair and felt the wash of heat across her cold body with gratitude. Elphir looked disheveled and more worn than one whom had just risen from his bed should be. His shirt had slipped over one shoulder, and she could see the tension in the muscle. Folding her hands, she began to speak, but after one look at his face, thought better of it.

Flesh met stone as Elphir slammed his hands down upon the stone mantle. Anwyn’s eyes widened in surprise; she had never before seen such an outward display of her husbands anger. As his fingers closed around the stone, the knuckles blanched white.

“How could you be such a fool?”

The question was dropped into the silence between them like a heavy stone into a deep well. Anwyn was utterly taken aback. She drew in a breath, looking down at her hands.

“It comes after many years of practice,” she answered quietly feeling her face prick with the warmth of embarrassment.

There was no need to remind her of the rashness of her actions. The ride back had given her ample time to consider what might have happened to her to her alone in the wintry woods.

“Do not make light of this, Anwyn!” Elphir spun sharply about to face her. “Do you not care?”

“I was in no danger!” Anwyn shot back, her hackles rising like a cat's. Elphir’s handsome features were livid, his grey eyes blazing into her own.

“Did you give no thought to our child?” The word’s hit her like a solid kick to the gut. Anwyn visibly flinched.

So they had come to it at last.  
When she could at last bring herself to speak, her lip’s trembled slightly. She was proud, but could not conceal her hurt.  
“Do you truly think I would _ever_ willfully do anything that would harm the baby I carry?” The words were soft but there was a growing anger behind them as well. “How dare you?” Her hands gathered into tight fists at her side.

At this moment the child chose to move slightly. It reminded her of it's presence and steadily growing strength. She could almost think it knew it was being discussed.  
Elphir relented then, if only a little. They had fought before, and would again, but Anwyn knew her husband well enough to read the smallest gesture.

“Why do you take so long to answer me?” she snapped, pulling herself up from her seat. If she were to face such accusation, she certainly would not do so sitting down!

Elphir was silent, his chest rose and fell beneath his shirt and his brows knit as he looked at her. She felt a sensation of sinking, and raising a trembling hand she brushed away a tendril of hair that had fallen across her face. Her own heart raced and blood pounded in her ears.

“Is that all that I have become to you? No more than a broodmare?” The words had flown from her lips before she could stop them and as soon as they were out, her jaw snapped shut. She did not like to allow any tension between them to gradually dissipate; she would hold to this as a hound holds to the throat of a stag.

“I trust you,” Elphir's words were genuine, but they came moments too late.

“Then you trust that I would never _purposely_ do anything to harm our child?” Anwyn pressed even as she steadily backed away from him. It was now Elphir’s face which darkened with anger.

“You think I merely took you as my wife so that I could get sons on you?” he demanded, layers of tightly woven control being stripped away. “How could you ever think that of me?” he shouted as he strode forward and Anwyn held her ground but felt herself faltering.

“Elphir, I...“

“Silence!” The word rang with such a tone of authority that Anwyn’s mouth closed, but her eyes flashed at him.

“Do you for even a single moment doubt my love for you? Do I not live it with my every breath? I would have you know, Lady, that if it was my desire to have _a brood mare_ I would have wed many year’s ago! I waited to find one whom is my equal, whom I might share all the long days of my life with. When I first laid eyes upon you, I confess I desired you, but I did not then love you then. You must trust that I am old enough now to be well aware of the difference!” Elphir's face was flinty.

Anwyn looked away, not wanting him to see her tears of anger; anger directed against herself, not at him. She knew he spoke the truth and wished to be alone now to gather her thoughts. Her vision blurred with hot tears and she lunged toward the door.

“Wait!”

A grip like iron closed about her wrist, and she gave a small yelp of pain. Immediately she was released; Elphir sometimes forgot his own strength. Even as she regarded him she saw the high color of tempter drain from his face.

It had startled her more than hurt her, but Anwyn saw his expression change from anger to compunction.

“Anwyn, I am so sorry, forgive me,” he stammered, but she shook her head in answer and slamming the bolt back, she opened the door and for the second time this night, ran from the room. ~

~~~


	27. Apotheosis

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ In the bedchamber, poised on the brink of action and retaliation, the heads of the Elves lifted at a noise which ripped through the storm: a wild scream, terrible and triumphant.

Glorfindel's eyes widened to a white blaze of fire. He flung his power, his mind, further after Vanimórë, and hurled one warning into the room.  
"The Enemy is here!"

~~~

He fell. He fell and kept falling, a plunge that seemed to last forever. His soul curled into a tight ball, a dust mote settled on the bottom of Time. There was no light, nothing. Only horror.

She had lived all these years, becoming older, never dying. Cursed. He had seen her hands, blooded and broken as they were, the thick veins, the swollen joints, skin thin as parchment.

Images flashed into his mind, of cities which he had never seen, and some that he had. Sauron showed the path of Vanya's toiling, agelong journey, pulled lightly by the Dark Lord's mind.

And Vanimórë had passed her by — this was the thought which devastated him. She was just another beggar crouched in the streets as his shadow fell across her.

He saw her beaten, reviled, spat upon. Sometimes, too rarely, she was treated kindly, given shelter and food.

From the pale north to the eastern lands she trod, always alone, searching for some-one she had been made to forget. She was a soul bound to its body by a black sorcery which did not permit their separation. Morgoth's had broken her beauty, the years settled like weights on her bones.

Thousands of years. And he had not known...

He had believed, _made_ himself believe, that she was in Aman. _And no-one had disabused him, no-one had told him. _ She had done no wrong, no matter that she was the daughter of Sauron. She had loved him, comforted him, been the brightness of his life in a place of darkness. He had envisaged her finding peace. _Why had he never considered Morgoth's malice?  
_ Because to think of her would be to face his guilt. He had killed her. It had been an act of love, but he had been far too young to shoulder such a burden.

The sky over New Cuiviénen cracked with power as Vanimórë descended upon it like a storm. His eyes flared redly as he alighted on the palace gardens. One hand sent Maglor hurtling through the air, and only the Fëanorion's quickness and balance saved him.

The terrible being that was and was not Vanimórë raised his head and laughed like the doom of the world.

''Fëanáro! I am here. Come forth.'' The voice sent the great pillars of the palace frontage humming as if they were harp-strings.

The High King strode forward, Fingolfin by his side. Elgalad was with them. Fëanor saw Maglor, blooded and bruised and his eyes blazed as they turned back to the tall, black haired man, who gripped two reddened swords.

''Father.'' Tindómion ran forward. Maglor looked at him, eyes silver in the crimson-splashed face.

_What did he do to thee, what did..? _

''Father.'' The strain and weight in Maglor's words drew Fëanor's eyes to his. He had felt it in Tanith when Vanimórë had wept tears from night-black eyes.  
''That is not Vanimórë.''

Elgalad stared. A chill like a wind from the north rushed through him.

''Vanimórë?'' he whispered, and those alien eyes turned from Fëanor to him, purple blotted by crimson-black.

''Come, Elgalad.'' But the words were formed of pitch

Maglor shouted, _"No." _

Elgalad ran forward. Legolas leaped after him, and an arm like a hammer swung out, smashing them both into the grass. Maglor dropped to his knees beside them.  
Laughter rebounded through the air, ember light flickered like a nimbus about the dark god.

And, deep inside, Vanimórë heard Glorfindel's voice:  
_ No. Fight him. Fight him! _

_Elgalad. Vanya..._

Grief and anguish transmuted into fury. He began to to struggle, battered by the minds of both Morgoth and Sauron.

__  
Everything we will take from thee, Slave. Thou weak fool, didst thou never learn how much of a weakness love is?  


_No. No. _

_Let go of thy form, Vanimórë!_ A burning gold mote in endless Nothing. Glorfindel.

Vanimórë had been a plaything for Morgoth and Sauron, he had recovered the Silmaril of the Oceans, faced down the Valar, and for a moment he was afraid of this dissolution. But so had Glorfindel been in Tanith.

_ Trust me, Vanimórë. Come with me. _

He let go, and what touched him then made all power seem as insignificant as the fluttering of a sparrow's wings against the might of a Great Eagle's. He felt his soul enclosed, held safely as in white wings, and...taken from his body.

The figure changed before the eyes of the Noldor. Fingolfin's hand closed on Fëanor's arm, and his eyes widened as it grew into a towering presence. He said, with savage hate: ''_Morgoth Bauglir."_

Fëanor's eyes and sword shone white as he stepped forward.

''I have..._long_ desired this, Jail Crow.'' His smile was beautiful.

Lightning punched steaming holes in the grass as if forked down about Morgoth. There was a metallic hiss as he drew the twin blades which Vanimórë wore at his back.

''I will hear thy screams, Fëanáro. I will have thee dance for me and service me as Sauron's bastard get did.''

Fëanor's face was like a jewel under the great cloud of hair.

''Then come, Jail Crow.'' He made it a command.

''I killed thy half-brother."   
Fingolfin stared at Morgoth in furious revulsion.   
''Thou wilt be my slave, Fëanáro Finwion, before I make thee beg for death, over long, _long_ Ages.'' As he spoke, one of the scimitars came down like a falling tree. The _laen_ blade flamed as it met and held.

''Thou art but an Elf, Curufinwë. Thou canst not defeat a Power.'' Laughter like liquid thunder.

Fëanor, his arm locked, each tendon straining, felt something stir. It was as if a cool, strong breeze was touching his soul.

_Do not fight it, _ He heard Glorfindel say. _ Thou didst long desire this indeed, and thy time will come again. Thou wilt face him alone, but now, let Vanimórë in. _  
Amd Fëanor's eyes burst into violet fire. Vanimórë's voice, twinned with his own, said:  
''Together we can defeat a Vala, Morgoth Bauglir!''

There came a bellow of denial and, unmistakably, fear. Morgoth swept the second sword down as if it were Grond, and the being which was both Vanimórë and Fëanor spun lightly aside. The _laen_ flickered out, opened a cut on Morgoth's back.

''Thou art rusty,'' they mocked, as the revolution sliced a thigh. Then the conjoined Elf-god was once again in front of its ancient enemy.

''How many times didst thou wound him, Fingolfin?" Fëanor's voice asked. "Seven? I must match thee at least.''

The Noldor were transfixed. Morgoth used the twin blades as if they were bludgeons, but the one he fought was too swift, dodging blows that could have smashed his body deep into the ground and broken it, as Fingolfin had been broken. The _laen_ blade bit out like a lightning strike; black blood hissed and spat from the wounds.

Fëanor and Vanimórë fought as one. Morgoth, all brutal force, struggled to meet the spinning, grace that drew rings of light and blood around him. He screamed as something penetrated his boot.

''Halt in one foot again, Bauglir?''

The god whirled and then sprang onto Morgoth's back, one hand clenched in long hair. The twin blades swung back in an effort to strike, but fell from his hands as a dagger scored a vicious cut across his face and took out one eye. He screamed. The god somersaulted, landed neatly, and stalked toward the half-blind Morgoth. The wonderful face shone, his eyes were deadly, and the sword burned in his hand like a solid white flame.

''Thou fool," snarled the twinned voices. "Thou didst forge me as a weapon is forged indeed. Thou didst forge better either of thee knew. Thy spirit wasted itself in Angband, poured into the creation of monstrosities. Vala thou art indeed, Bauglir — _but thou art no warrior!_ _ And we are._"

The _laen_ penetrated him, sizzling as if it had been pulled white-hot from a forge. A shriek ripped from Morgoth's throat. The flesh of his hands melted as they gripped the burning crystal. He fell to his knees.

Eyes that flickered from purple to diamond stared contemptuously into red ones, then they lifted. A smile formed deep within them as they looked beyond him.

"Brother?" 

Fingolfin strode forward, stared at the Power he had battled long ago. Battled and died in agony, his body ruined. But in his dying he had been granted a gift: a vision of Fëanor's face. Now he looked deep into the terrible eyes and saw fear.

"How does it feel?" he asked, and brought up his sword in salute to his brother — then it came around in an arc of silver and sheared through Morgoth's neck.

The sky had held back the rain as if it were a pent breath. Now a deluge fell.

Morgoth toppled, fell on his side, blood smoking from the wounds. Over the fallen body, Fëanor and Fingolfin shared a deep, private look.

There was no sound for a moment but the hiss of the downpour. Then Glorfindel was there, and there was a faint smile on his face, even as he knelt beside Legolas and Elgalad.

''They will be all right.'' He looked up. 

''I know,'' the voices said, and carefully both Elves were lifted and carried toward the palace.

Maglor came out of his shock and cried, ''Father?'' Confusion clear in his voice. ''_Whom art thou?_'' he shouted. ''What art thou?''

On the steps the god tuned.

''I am Fëanor,'' he said in the High King's voice and then, ''I am Vanimórë.'' And they added, ''Fear not, it was only for a little while, for this task.''

And he turned and walked inside. ~

  



	28. Late Confessions

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ Anwyn hardly saw where she walked, and only her will held back the tears that threatened to fall. Then some-one gently touched her arm and recognizing the presence she allowed herself to weep.

She heard the lively crackle of a fire and the splash of water. A cool cloth was wrung out and pressed into her hands and she wiped at her face, though the eyes she raised to her mother were still puffy.

When Eowyn smiled the fine lines about her eyes creased ever so slightly. Though her heart pounded furiously within her breast Anwyn drew another breath, seeking to calm herself. Eowyn patted her hand.  
“There,” was all she said. Anwyn did not return the smile, her lips were drawn in a thin line and she looked pale and drawn by the flickering light of a lit candle.

“I have been married to Faramir many years Anwyn, and you may trust me when I say that lovers shall always fight, all that changes is that you find less and less to disagree about!”

“You heard us?” Anwyn asked quietly even as a flush stained her cheeks. She drew herself up, her back straightening as though preparing for chastisement.

“I believe the entire house may have heard,” Eowyn said with a touch of dry amusement and Anwyn shot suddenly to her feet.

“Bema’s balls!” she exclaimed loudly and Eowyns mood was sharply sobered.

“Never speak so in my presence! Sit down!”

Anwyn slowly sat down, rather startled and Eowyn's expression softened once more. She reached out to brush away a wisp of hair from her daughter’s eyes. Anwyn trembled and her hands gently clasped the swell of her growing belly as though she sought to embrace and comfort the child within.

Eowyn sat at the side of one whom was the very image of herself all those years ago. In the early months of her own marriage, she had marred Faramir with words. The mind as well as the body did strange things when one carried a child.

“I have said such…_horrible_ things!” Her daughter's voice broke into her thoughts. The grey eyes were sad now; the wild look of anger that had lit them had passed. Anwyn was certain she did not deserve kindness or understanding of anyone, not after she had been so shamefully rude to the one whom she loved the most.

“You did not mean your words,” Eowyn said firmly.

“No, of course not!” Anwyn raised her head “I…I did not, they were cruel, unfair...” Her brow furrowed as she remembered her own voice hurling accusations at her husband. Her nails dug sharply into her palms.

“You are tired,” Eowyn observed taking in the faint shadow beneath her daughters eyes. “You do not allow yourself the rest your body needs as you grow heavier with child.”

“I cannot sleep!” Anwyn exclaimed, her tone a touch shrill as she recalled the time but hours earlier when she had lain awake feeling the child. It had become an activity which had left her without sleep for what seemed nights beyond count.

Eowyns soft smile was all too knowing. “I spent many wakeful nights when I carried you.”

This was enough to quiet Anwyn, and Eowyn reached out and gingerly touched her daughters cheek. There was always some uncertainty in her, some deep-buried expectation of rebuke.

It was difficult for me as well,” she murmured, her gaze distant as she drew back into her own thoughts. “To hide myself, my body, from a young and amorous husband.” The light gaze suddenly flashed as Eowyn returned to herself.  
“I do not regret it.” She rose, her long skirt sweeping across the floor as she poured warmed cider into a silver goblet and pressed it into Anwyn’s hands.

“Faramir has gone to speak with Elphir. Let him be for a time and do not fear, I do not think he is angry with you.”

Anwyn bit down on her lower lip, uncertain of this. It was not anger which troubled her but the words of accusation that had sprung too easily to her lips.

“Elphir is a good man,” Eowyn continued as though she had not taken any notice of Anwyn’s troubled expression. “He love’s you very much, that is clear.”

The glass which was half way to the Eowyn's lips paused.  
“Your love for him is returned fully, it is…whole”  
After a long drink, she set the cup aside.  
“I have in my life loved two men deeply. I did not desire to find love, yet my heart passed from me to one who did not want it - and then was captured by another.” Eowyn looked a touch wistful as though she had lost herself in a pleasant memory.

“My Father...You loved him?” Anwyn spoke carefully, for she knew she this matter was held close to her mothers heart.

“Oh yes, and I love him still.” Eowyn closed her eyes as she spoke and lowered her head though Anwyn saw the edges of her mouth curve up in a small smile.~

~~~


	29. Let The Houseless Be Re-Housed

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
~ **New Cuiviénen **

 

"I am all-right." Legolas' voice was strained as Glorfindel laid him down on a long couch.

"Some of the ribs are cracked, Elgalad's too, they must be bound up." Glorfindel rested his hand on Legolas' chest. "No, stay still." He walked to a side table and poured wine.

"That was..." Legolas began and stopped.

"It was Morgoth." Returning with the wine, Glorfindel raised the prince to drink. He felt the shiver, heard the small hiss of pain.

"_How?_"

"He gained control of Vanimórë's form. There was only one way to destroy him, or rather his chosen form. He must have used a great deal of power to do what he did."  
He drank and considered how the One worked on the vast tapestry of Arda, drew threads into place.

"I might have killed Fëanor then, in his chamber." His voice became steel. "had I not felt Morgoth. Vanimórë was overwhelmed. He had to release his soul from his body, and enter Fëanor's to meet Morgoth."

Legolas' eyes were stamped with shock and the dark horror he had felt, but through that he was still thinking, and he said, "Because Morgoth slew Finwë, and stole the Silmarilli. That was why you allowed Fëanor to confront Morgoth..." He bit off the name as if it scorched his tongue.

"Yes. And because Fëanor also wanted to avenge his brother's death." Glorfindel thrust a hand into his hair, frowning. "Morgoth hated Fëanor, for he could not control him. He feared him. He did not go himself to meet his greatest enemy, he sent Balrogs. He fought Fingolfin because he had no choice, even Powers can loose the respect of those they rule. I believe that the One likes poetic justice. And I must admit, so do I. But this is not the end. Morgoth cannot ever be destroyed. He will try again to return to this world. And we will be waiting."

Silent, awed servant came bearing bandages. From the hallway there was the sound of raised voices. They faded as the door closed again, and Glorfindel gently unlaced Legolas' shirt, easing it over his head. The grimness of his expression melted into appreciation at the sight of the nipples pierced with gleaming hoops. He caught back a murmur of regret as he bandaged the torso firmly.

"I think I _would_ have killed Fëanor. I know what he intended – that I allow him to leave, welcome his going, but he went too far."

The wine or the passing of danger had set a hectic glitter in Legolas' eyes, dispelling the glaze of discomfort. He ran a hand up Glorfindel's chest.  
"So, what has happened to him, to Fëanor? And how did Morgoth gain control of Vanimórë?"

"Vanimórë..." Glorfindel's face became more grave, touched with sorrow and he said, as if to some-one invisible in the room, "Yes, take Elgalad with thee now. Thou doth need him." He sat down on the floor, tipping his head back, feeling the play of Legolas fingers through his hair, as he spoke of an ancient and vindictive curse whose sorrow could never be assuaged.

~~~

Images burst through Fëanor's mind, through Vanimórë's. In the time that it took him to carry Elgalad into the palace, he lived from his birth in Valinor, married Nerdanel, sired sons, created the Silmarilli, seduced his half-brother and drew sword on him, lost his father, slew his kin, faced the first orcs in Endor, came to Dor Daedeloth, fought Balrogs. He died and his body was consumed in fire.  
He huddled in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, holding his sister, was taken to Angband and trained, _he killed his sister... save that Morgoth had brought her back..._ (and here the anguish and fury caused his long stride to falter.) He was raped by Morgoth, made a Slave, made a warrior, lived through Ages of war and degradation, found an an Elf-woman called Nimrodel, raised a child...

Two souls collided, melted together, each gaining something from the other and shone like a star; a star which burned with a blue-white, explosive heat.

He set Elgalad down upon a cushioned settle, smoothed a thumb over the high cheekbone, he felt the cracked ribs and bruising, the sleep of the unconscious mind.

''Tell me what happened,'' came a voice from the doorway and he turned. Those who entered the room were silent, faces burned by what they had witnessed.  
''Thou art _not_ Fëanor.'' Fingolfin's brilliant eyes fixed on his face. "Where is my brother? And how did Morgoth come here?''

Maglor said, ''He possessed thee in Tanith, did he not?"

Vanimórë gave a bare nod.

"I was away from the palace and saw an old woman," Maglor continued. "She was ancient and very frail. I played to her until the sun rose. As I moved to help her, I saw the underside of her wrist...'' His tone moved into the lyrical cadences of the bard telling a tale. ''There was a mark on it, in black, a brand, an iron crown, black, set with three jewels.''

The silence was broken by a hiss.

''I pushed back her hood and saw her ears. I believed her a thrall who had been broken, lost her wits. Then a crowd came, a mob who bayed for her blood, called her a witch and they began to stone us. I was fighting, and when...Vanimórë came it was too late...'' He faltered and drew in a breath. ''There was nothing that any-one could recognize, save the brand on her wrist. But she called him brother...and asked him to kill her.''

This time the silence was absolute. Some-one cursed under their breath. Vanimórë's voice was hard, his face impassive.  
''I killed her long ago, to save her from a life of slavery. I _ thought _ I had killed her..." For a moment Fingolfin saw, as if through an open door, a glimpse of Vanimórë's life. It was enough to make his blood run as ice.  
"They did not let her die," Vanimórë whispered. "She wandered the world searching for something they had made her forget. For me. And when I discovered her, Morgoth was able to overcome me.'' His eyes passed over the silent Noldor. ''I was _taken_ from my body, my soul placed within Fëanor's, joining with his soul. Morgoth had to be killed before he could become accustomed to having form.''

"Our father's spirit would never share a body with thee,'' Curufin spat. "Where is he?"

''Dost thou doubt Eru's wisdom, my son?'' It was the voice of the High King and a look of bewilderment and rage shook Curufin's face.

''Thou art _not our father,_'' he reiterated.

''This was done for a reason. Eru did not desire my spirit to be houseless. And I would guess there are other reasons, but I do not know them as yet.''

Fingolfin's eyes shaped the question his lips would not voice. _ Where is my brother? _

"Fëanor will return to thee," Vanimórë told them. "I will leave it to Glorfindel to tell thee how. And I must leave now.'' He paused and looked hard at Curufin. ''Although I would like to stay and punish thee, it is unfortunately outside my province."

"Punish me?" Curufin exclaimed. "Dare it."

"_Never_ dare _me._" Black fury burned up. "Thou didst touch Elgalad. I have impaled men alive for that."

"Be silent, Curufin." Fingolfin raised his hand and Vanimórë said, in a tone slammed into control by an iron fist: "Morgoth wanted to fight Fëanor and then take him somewhere to...enjoy him, ultimately enslave him. There is a poetry in it, is there not? Fëanor did not meet the slayer of his father and the thief of the Silmarilli in combat. Now he has, and thou Fingolfin, after dying at his hands in the First Age, dealt the final stroke. Does that not have a graceful symmetry?''

Curufin turned away with an oath and strode from the room.

''I will not lose him again.'' Passion rang in Fingolfin's voice and Vanimórë crossed to him, kissed him full on the mouth.

''I swear it, Nolofinwë.'' He smiled, now teasing. ''Thou canst not lose him. He would never allow it.'' He took another kiss, then turned and looked at Maglor. The amusement faded. ''Thou art injured. I thank thee for trying to protect her.''

''I did nothing,'' Maglor said bitterly.

''Even had she lived, I could not have helped her," Vanimórë said and something came and went on his face, like wind on a still lake. "I must go. I have things to attend to in Tanith. But first I have something I must do here. Wilt thou watch Elgalad while he sleeps?'' Maglor nodded and, when Vanimórë had gone, he stepped into Fingolfin's embrace.

Fingolfin struggled with incredulity. Morgoth had been here, and they had slain him, sent his spirit back to the Void. It had happened so quickly that there had not been time to think.

_My love, my hate, my joy, my sin. Where art thou?_

~~~

Vanimórë's steps took him from the palace. Thunder echoed in the distant mountains, but the storm was receding. There was peace in the gentle whisper of the rain.

Vanimórë now knew that no matter what Fëanor's faults and offenses he was not meant to die again. Like his creations, the Silmarilli, he was unique. He had been used, in a way that appealed to him, to defeat his oldest enemy.  
Vanimórë turned, walked along the frontage of the palace and into a room where one lamp shone, shimmering in coin-gold and pale-gilt hair.

''Glorfindel. Legolas."

Two pairs of blue and brilliant eyes turned to him, Glorfindel's thoughts reaching out, touching him gently. He shook his head, did not speak.

''I want her to find peace.'' There was a hairline crack in the last word.

"She will," Glorfindel came across, rested his fingers on Vanimórë's cheek. "Do not bear this alone."

"Ah, I have to bear it alone. I know no other way." His eyes fell on Legolas, marble-pale and grave. "I will take Elgalad with me now."

"You will not blame him for what happened?" Legolas asked quickly.

"I could never — deliberately — hurt him, Legolas." He turned to Glorfindel. "I know what Fëanor did, or tried to do. I am only a jealous bastard, after all. Now thou canst explain what I do now."

Glorfindel's smile was wry.  
"I can hardly wait to see their faces." He stepped forward, took Vanimórë's face in his hands and kissed him. When he drew back, Legolas reached out a hand, gripped Vanimórë's and drew him down. He looked at them with bewilderment, bowed, and walked from the room. 

~~~

The villa he sought was some way from the palace, and stood on a small hill garlanded with trees. The one he had come to find was drawing a cloak about herself and preparing to leave. A warrior in the livery of Fingolfin stood in the hallway. He stepped forward as Vanimórë entered, then saluted.

Vanimórë said, ''I have just come from Glorfindel, and before I leave for the south, I have something to tell thee and to ask of thee, Fanari Penlodiel.''

~~~

She was so still that even her breath seemed to have stopped. The light caught the gems in her hair in sharp, brief winks, but there was no other movement for a long time.

A bird broke into song in the trees, and at that she lifted her head as if seeing Vanimórë for the first time. She had been struck by the force of him, the sensuality, the dark and vivid beauty, but equally by his loneliness. Her instinct was to comfort him. Had this been another time, she might have laughed at her own presumption.

''I think thou canst do this,'' he said. ''Thy life has been tied to the House of Fëanor almost since thy birth; a girl who saw Maglor at Mereth Aderthad and dreamed of him ever after. And thy dreams were realized, in blood and violence.''

She nodded. ''That is why thou art asking me?''

''Fëanor never had a mother. He will need one who knows how to raise a Fëanorion.''

Fanari nearly smiled. He went on: ''Fire is meant to burn, tame fires serve a purpose, but it is the searing blaze that fascinates, is it not? The _wildfire._ That is what beckoned thee and thy love of it allowed thee to survive rape. Young Fëanor will need one who knows how to love such as he.''

''That I can do...but my lord, if thou art his father — in a sense — will he inherit thy...powers?'' She did not say it, but her thoughts were clear as a trumpet: _Fëanor with the powers of a god?!_

''Yes.''

She blinked.

''Finwë loved his firstborn, but Fëanor had no mother. He will not lack for fathers.''

"I grieved," Fanari said. "for the fall of the House of Fëanor."

He reached out a hand. ''It has risen again and only the One knows what it may come to be in the end.''

As his fingers touched hers a shock ran up her arm. Her face blazed with colour. She wondered if he might kill her, if bearing the child would, if she would die as Miriel had. But he had spoken of her being a mother to the young Fëanor...

" Wilt thou look on this as a duty, lady, or a pleasure?" He raised a brow. She went down in a low reverence, holding the pose for heartbeats, as if before a mighty king, but there were dimples at the corner of her mouth as she said, "I am thy servant, lord. And his."

He took her hand, raised her and laughed.  
"Thou art no-one's servant, Lady. And this is an honour."

~~~

Maglor looked up from the sleeping Elgalad as Vanimórë entered the now quiet chamber.

''Thy father will be reborn, Maglor. As a child. ''

'' A _child?_'' Maglor repeated blankly.

''Eru permits it, and in this case, it has to be. As he grows he will remember all his life, but first he will be as any young Elf, save that this time he will have a mother.''

And Maglor _knew._

''_ Thou art his father? _ Thou? And thou didst choose Fanari because she has raised a Fëanorion son, _my son,_ without a father?''

''Exactly. She has raised a Fëanorion alone. Although alone is one thing this child will not be. Thy father has his own soul, although mine and his have mingled for a short time. Oh, thou hast all my sympathies, a little Fëanor.''

''Thou art his _father?_'' Vanimórë was a power and Fëanor had always burned too bright as an Elf...

''The One used the Lady Fanari and I to work his will. Fëanor will always be himself,'' Vanimórë said sardonically, and looked down at Elgalad's unconscious face. ''I have never sired any child, but I did raise one, and he is precious to me.''

''Look after him. Do not punish him.'' Maglor's words brought Vanimórë's eyes up.

''He is _dear_ to me. And thou — dost thou come?''

''We are not lovers.'' The silver eyes shone with awakening anger. ''Why would I?''

''We _have_ been lovers,'' Vanimórë leaned forward and kissed Maglor briefly, a burning touch. ''We will _always_ be lovers, my beauty. And our lives will be forever entwined.''

''Does every-one know?''

''About thou and I? I do not boast of my conquests.'' the violet eyes were almost innocent. Almost.

''About my father,'' snapped Maglor, and then he saw that Vanimórë was holding back the anguish of his sister's death with all his formidable will. The flippancy was the dam erected against pain.

''I am sorry,'' he said with difficulty.

''Glorfindel will know and he will announce it.'' The answer was brusque.

_Damn him, he will accept no pity! Damn his pride, he could be Fëanorion himself! My father's father..? _  
Maglor dragged his hands through his damp hair and felt the swollen lumps from where rocks had struck him in Tanith. It felt another Age ago.

''And thou, my beautiful singer. Rest. I must go.'' Vanimórë lifted Elgalad and turned, walking into a ripple of fire.

~~~

In Tanith it was already afternoon, hot and still. Vanimórë removed Elgalad's clothes and wrapped bandages about his chest. He drew a sheet up to cover him and only then did he lay his head down and in utter anguish and desolation, he wept. ~

  



	30. Sorrow And Sweetness

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ ** Tanith **   


  


  


  
****

~ When Vanimórë vanished, the guards emerged from behind their shields in a state of shock. Hoof-beats behind them brought them around saluting as Khanad reined in his horse. His eyes took in the swathe of burned dead; the breeze carried the stench of charred meat. He grimaced.

''What in the gods' names happened?''

''There was a riot, Sire," Cartha said. "The rabble were stoning an old woman. I think the Warlord knew her. '' 

Khanad dismounted, beckoned Cartha and Zochana, and carefully stepped through the wreckage. There was only one body which was not burned and looking at it, he wished it had been.

''He _knew_ her? How could he?''

Cartha stared down. ''He was kneeling by her, Sire. I saw a knife flash. It was a mercy. Then the fire struck the mob.''

Zochana knelt. The long fine mass of white hair was stained scarlet, some had been torn out in lumps.

''Sire, I think I know who she was. I... tried to ensure she got some food before the encampment was set up.'' He flushed. ''She used to give most of it away. She was with a woman and two children, a whore.'' He knew the look of them. The lewd black eyes had licked over him.

Khanad swore as he crouched down to look.  
''She was an Elf. Look. And Vanimórë knew her? I thought Elves did not age.'' He shook his head. ''Very well. I want soldiers down at the encampment to quell any more trouble. Where is Vanimórë?''

''He...vanished with the other Elf, Sire. There was fire and then both were gone."

''Wrap this body and bring it in for burial. I want this...'' The King gestured at the blackened bones, ''taken away, put in a grave. If any-one sees Lord Vanimórë, send him to me.'' He strode for his horse.

''He _must_ have known her, or why such rage?'' Cartha murmured.

From somewhere came the wail of a child. Zochana turned. Further down the slope, a boy of about six had been bowled over by the stampeding crowd of onlookers who had followed the mob. The guard strode over to him, saw that he was clutching a bundle to him. Only when he was close did the man realize it was a baby.

''Here, boy,'' he said gently, but the thin figure shuddered and flinched away. ''Let us get you and the little one back to the camp.''

''She is dead!'' The child sobbed. ''Mother said the lady killed her, but she did not. Becka was hungry!'' A convulsion of weeping shook him.

In pity and understanding, Zochana laid a hand on the boys back, the spine was sharp under the rough cloth.  
"Come," he said. ''You cannot stay here. Come with me."

~~~

Elgalad took a breath, felt the discomfort of his ribs, and frowned. The ceiling above him was white, not as lofty as he expected and he could smell the hot, spice-and-incense odor of the south.  
He turned his head and saw Vanimórë standing with his back to him, looking out.

_Tanith. _

He sat up suddenly, memories soaking him, and set his teeth as his ribs protested. Vanimórë turned.  
''Careful.'' His voice was mild as he poured wine. Elgalad swallowed a deep draft. His heart leaped waywardly, even as he drank in the sight of Vanimórë, disheveled hair spilling in waves about a frost-white face.  
''What h-happened?'' he whispered.

''Too much.'' The tone fitted like a lid over the emotions raging beneath. Elgalad listened, hardly breathing, as Vanimórë spoke of his sister, of Morgoth, his struggle, of Fëanor.

''He might have won had he kept my form and not wanted to appear as he was used to in Middle-earth. And, of course, did he know how to use my swords.'' Vanimórë sounded sardonic, then became more serious as he spoke of Fanari Penlodiel, told that Fëanor would be born as a child.

''He will have powers, but I hope they will be constrained by mine and Glorfindel's, and in time he will remember everything.'' He heard Elgalad's unspoken thought and nodded.  
''True rebirth is rare. If the soul of an Elf chooses it, Eru must approve it. He has. And Fanari Penlodiel bore and raised a Fëanorion without a husband before. She will give him great love.''

''He will b-be thy son?'' Elgalad asked, astonished.

''Well...in a way. An odd thought, I agree. But he will still be Fëanor.''

Elgalad reached up a hand hesitantly. Vanimórë clasped it.  
"Thy.. thy sister...I am so sorry, I th-thought she was...''

''So did I.'' The answer was cold, and it was not Vanimórë who wept, but Elgalad. Tears overflowed from his eyes in silence.

''And I...with Fëanor. ''

Vanimórë shook his head. ''Few could resist Fëanor. Hells, I would not try. He desired thee, and thou...I do not know how thou hast borne celibacy." He shrugged. "And Fëanor knew what would spur me to fight Ungoliant. He truly is _very_ clever." _And wholly unscrupulous._

Elgalad felt himself drawn against Vanimórë's chest. He smelled spices and felt the heartbeat. 

''I cannot hold thee too tightly, rest.'' Lips brushed his hair then his head was tilted up and his whole body burned as he was kissed with devastating thoroughness. He found himself thinking again that there was a great deal which was similar between Vanimórë and Fëanor. Curling his hands on the wide shoulders, he absorbed the kiss and returned it.

Living Fëanor's memories, Vanimórë knew how it would be to take him, how Elgalad would respond, generously, how wildly. He felt the desire throb in his loins and only drew back as a suppressed gasp of pain reminded him of the injured ribs.

Their eyes met.

''Wilt thou not take me now?'' Elgalad asked.

"If it were as simple as sex, I would have had thee long ago." Vanimórë leaned his brow against Elgalad's for a moment and then eased him down. ''Rest.'' His fingers smoothed back the silver hair.

''I w-was told that both the... Dark L-lords were somehow inside thy m-mind?''

Vanimórë bent his head.

''If th-the one is gone,'' Elgalad asked. ''What of thy... wh-what of Sauron?''

The violet eyes widened, went blank for a moment.

''A very good question,'' he mused. ''He cannot remake a physical form at once. But he is here, upon Middle-earth. Again.'' He rose and there was an edge to his force that was both terrible and beautiful. ''And now I must speak with Khanad. Sleep, let thy body heal. I will not be long.'' He leaned down to kiss Elgalad's parted lips, and felt a hand slide up his chest.

''Little wonder Fëanor desired thee.'' Vanimórë straightened, passed through the archway into the outer chamber and then the door shut behind him. Elgalad closed his eyes.

_Thou wilt not accept my pity, my love, but I will weep for thee._

~~~

''There you are.'' Khanad came from his seat scattering papers. ''Is all...well?'' he asked after a long look at Vanimórë's face. ''I am sorry. Zochana told me that the woman who was killed....was known to you..?'' He poured wine, pushed the goblet across the table.

''She was broken and cursed by Morgoth to forever look for me and never find me.'' Vanimórë turned away. ''She was my twin.''

There were no words for this that would not sound banal. How old was Vanimórë? How long had his sister searched for him?

''Since before the ending of the First Age.'' The answer was quiet and Khanad sought to grasp the magnitude of the time that had passed since then.

''It should not have happened." He was ashamed that such a thing should have occurred in Tanith, which had ever been so safe. Vanimórë's reaction had been extreme but Khanad could understand it. Inwardly he shook his head at that. No; how could he truly understand Vanimórë?

_He is dangerous, never forget that. Yet for what he did in ridding this realm of the Dark and Taraluk, I trust him. He has said there is no such thing as a God, only the Creator, but if he is not one, he and the golden one, then what can one call them? _

''There is mistrust and fear everywhere, Khanad. Perhaps my cursed father had a hand in it, as he did in all of it from the beginning.'' The gemlike eyes blazed. ''I should not have used power to kill them. It was too..._fast._'' The white teeth snapped together. ''I speak of this only because thou art king, and must know why I acted the way I did. And now, it is over.''

''I had her body brought in.'' Khanad broke the silence and thought, _ It took much for him to speak of it._

''I thank thee, but a body without the soul is nothing, a husk like those the cicada's leave behind. Yet I would bury her somewhere beautiful. She did not...deserve her life.''

''Bury her anywhere you wish,'' Khanad said and there was pity in his dark eyes. ''I am truly sorry.''

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

Fingolfin had gathered the Noldor together. Maglor wanted to talk to his uncle, but first he must see Fanari. Ignoring the bruises which throbbed painfully with each step, he made his way from the palace to her villa. He had been here at times with his son and, after a moment's thought, he disdained the main doors and jumped, pulling himself up over the balcony of her bedchamber.

There was a lingering perfume in the room which he associated with Vanimórë. His heart jolted as he thought of the invitation to return to Tanith and shook his head angrily. The motion brought a flash of pain. He winced.

A bar of sunlight slanted across the bed, and showed Fanari asleep. It was hard to believe that she carried the tiny spark of life which would become Fëanor, yet he understood why Vanimórë's choice had alighted on her. She had survived his rape and born a son she loved. He had asked her once why she had fallen in love with him, and she had told him without embarrassment.

~~~

She had strayed from the encampment alone. It was safe, and she was well within the guard outposts. It was then that she saw Fingon walking through the gathering dusk with a man even taller than he, flaunting a mane of copper-bronze hair. Power and grace were in his carriage and the tilt of his head. Their arms had been around one another's waists, and they paused and kissed. She had not been shocked, had thought this almost desperate embrace fierce and loving. Hidden under the drooping fronds of a willow, she waited as they parted and went their separate ways through the twilight, before she came out.

''Little doves have big eyes,'' murmured a voice filled with melody and she started, looking up at a richly robed man, his ebony hair a great cloud to his thighs, the knots and braids in it denoting royalty. His face was beautiful, his eyes silver and he appeared haughty until he smiled, when charm and warmth gleamed through.

''Lord.'' She swept a curtsy.

''Ah so there she is.'' This voice both knew and turned as it spoke. Glorfindel, a pale torch in the dusk, approached with a smile.

''Maglor,'' he said, and Fanari exclaimed:  
"Thou art the singer?"  
She had heard his music the evening before, and asked her mother whom it was that played, for she could not see him in the great gathering.

''I am _a_ singer, lady,'' he replied. ''And whom art thou? Art thou of Glorfindel's House?''

''Fanari is the daughter of Penlod, and the first child born to the Noldor in Endor.'' Glorfindel laid a hand on her head. ''Thy parents are looking for thee.''

''I walked further than I thought." She leaned against his thigh, slanted a smile upward. ''I saw Prince Fingon. I was hiding.'' Her admittance brought a laugh to Glorfindel's eyes. ''Who was he with? I have never seen hair that colour. Like autumn.''

''My brother, Maedhros.'' It was Maglor who answered, meeting Glorfindel's eyes.

''They were happy.'' The child's smile was guileless as she pressed closer to Glorfindel. He scooped her up, saying: ''Yes, they are happy. But it is a...secret joy, little one. Great lords have many duties, and friends must snatch what time they can together.''

The child's grey eyes flashed a glance at Maglor. She nodded. "I would not tattle about our High Prince, Glorfindel." She sounded endearingly adult, and both men laughed.

''Penlod is fortunate in his daughter." Maglor touched her cheek. "May we have many such children. I will make a song for thee this evening, Lady Fanari.''

And so he had, and from that moment Fanari was drawn into the fierce tragedy of the Fëanorions'. Maglor gifted her with the brooch which Tindómion later wore, and her childhood infatuation grew like an untended weed. Her longings were answered in violence, yet somehow that long, unrequited love had saved her.

~~~

''Maglor?''

''Yes?''

''May I ask why thou deem it necessary to _climb_ into my bedchamber?" Fanari had sat up. "Guests are most welcome, but they generally come by the doors."

''I spoke to Vanimórë," he said, which was all the explanation she would need.

''Ah.'' She rose and reached for a house-robe. ''Who else knows?''

''No one yet. Glorfindel will announce it.''

She turned to him. ''A message came from Fingolfin. He has summoned the people. So they will all know soon.''

''Yes, I am going there now." He came forward. "How does it feel?"

Her hand rested on her stomach. ''Very strange...although that may just be because I know who it is. But no. It _is_ strange..." Her eyes were blank and inward-looking for a moment, before focusing upon him again. "What of thee?" She put her fingers up to the healing bruises and cuts on his face.

"It is nothing. What happened here..."

"I felt it." Her shoulders stiffened as if against a chill. "But as for thy father, fear not. He will not forget his sons, those he loves. Even the Void could not banish his memories. Is that what troubles thee, that he may not know thee?"

"No, I do not fear that. I am concerned about thee. Thou hast no-one to help raise him. Perhaps — "

''No.'' She raised both hands. ''Do not _ dare_ to offer for me now, and do not use me to run from thy desires!''

''My _what? _'' His voice rose on the second word.

''Thou wouldst set me between the two thou dost truly want, and I resent it. Any-one would."

''Fanari." He fought his rising blush of mortification. "Do not impugn my motives. Didst thou not care for me once?"

''Oh, a little," she said wryly. "Thou knowest very well I was besotted.'' Her eyes lost their anger to an old, old sorrow. ''I do understand. I understood then. Thou wouldst be noble and miserable wed to me, Maglor. Though I think Vanimórë would find it amusing.''

''Why in the Hells would I care what he thinks?" he said through his teeth. "And I do not desire him," he added, lying. 

''Really? What is _wrong_ with thee?" She widened her eyes at him, and a dimple pricked. "We slept together to engender Fëanor, but I quite forgot it until the end.''   
  
"Thou also?" he asked, and she laughed, clasped her hands about his arm.  
''I do not need a husband, and Fëanor does not need a father. He will have at least seven.'' She waved him out. "Go on." The bedchamber door shut firmly behind him.

~~~

**Tanith**

The turfs were laid over the grave. It would not be long before they settled, became one with the grass, and there would be no sign that anything lay beneath. Vanimórë rose, brushed earth from his hands.

_I failed thee, Vanya, all these Ages. I never knew. I pray that thou wilt walk in the gardens of Lórien, where the Fumellar glow red in the dusk and there, find healing for the cruelty which was visited on thee. There is nowhere deep or dark enough for Sauron to hide from me, for what he did to thee! And Morgoth too will pay again and again. _

He felt Elgalad's presence close to him and turned his head, seeing the great grey eyes somber. A little further away stood Khanad and Aiana, with Zochana and Cartha behind them.

The body had been sewn into a shroud, and Vanimórë had borne it here, to the garden below his chambers. It was so light and withered it had no substance; the broken bones had grated together as he moved, spiking white rage and anguish through him. He imagined her as she had been, black of hair, white of skin, tall and lovely, a bright flower in the darkness of his young life.

Zochana walked forward silently, a small boy beside him. The child was carrying a deep red rose from which the thorns had been stripped and, with a gravity exceeding his years, he laid it on the turf. The guard inclined his head.

''My lord,'' he said, ''She...looked after him. His name is Hamir. His mother is dead.''

''I know,'' Vanimórë murmured and he could not raise within himself a spark of regret that the woman was gone. ''A blood-red rose...it is fitting.''  
He walked away, but Elgalad lingered. Aiana came across to him.

''You are hurt, but I am so glad to see you back,'' she said, and drew a faint smile from him. ''I do not understand, but I am glad you are here again, and also for _his_ sake.''

''Art thou well?'' Elgalad glanced at her stomach.

''A little.'' But there was a troubled expression in her eyes. Khanad was talking in a low voice to Zochana, and Elgalad lead her to a stone seat.

''I have n-not had time to learn what h-has been h-happening,'' he said, ''But thy face is n-not as joyful as it should b-be.''

''The King is to marry a daughter of the Khagan of Chey Sart.'' She locked her fingers together in her lap. ''A great honor, since that is a closed Empire to Harad. She is even now on her way here.''

''Aiana, I am sorry. I know that few kings w-wed for choice alone. Yet he l-loves thee.''

''What if he grows to love her?'' she wondered. ''She will be what he is used to, privileged and proud, raised as a lady, and I am...not.''

Elgalad took her hand. ''I know w-well this uncertainty, but I can see th-that Khanad loves thee.'' He kissed her cheek. ''And thy days with him will be long, and happy. I promise.''

~~~

''...I do not know where to place him, sire,'' Zochana was saying. ''I have a home in the lower city but he cannot stay there alone, and the my servant who tends to the house is old. He cannot keep his eye on a young boy.''

''There is no woman at the camp who would be willing to look after him? She could be paid,'' Khanad suggested.

''After what has happened, sire, I would not trust any-one not to rob such a woman, or for her to waste the money.'' A faint flush stole over the soldier's face, ''My wife... was taken as tribute, sire. We never had a child.''

''I understand, Zochana," Khanad said. "But he cannot remain in the guards quarters here; it is not the place to bring up a child.''

''There should be a place for orphaned children. ''  
They turned at Vanimórë's voice behind them. ''I have some plans I would like thee to look at, Sire. A child can be raised in comfort, learn a trade and not be reduced to thieving or beggary.''

The men looked at him. His face was hard, the strange eyes unreadable. Khanad was beginning to feel as if he had given house-room to something there was no name for, wild and lethal.

_He will only serve with you for as long as it suits his purpose. Tanith is but a stepping-stone, _ he thought. A winging black brow rose.

''Children like this can become productive citizens,'' Vanimórë went on. ''There will always be unequal wealth and poverty, but there are things which can be done.''

''This is new to me,'' The King admitted. ''And we all know why Tanith was so quiet and why there were so few beggars, so little trouble. No-one would wish to return to those days. Of course, Lord Vanimórë, I am at your disposal.''

Elgalad had lead Aiana over to them.

''Sire,'' she murmured. ''Could the child not remain in the palace for now?''

''He is too small to be a servant, my dear.'' Khanad took her hand, ''For the kitchens or smithies, he would hurt himself.''

''He c-could stay with us,'' Elgalad suggested. ''For a little.'' While he longed for Vanimórë to slip his shackles and come to his bed, his cracked ribs made such a thing impossible for the moment.

''Until we find somewhere else, if you are sure? Zochana, have word put out among your companions and the palace that this child needs a place, a woman to help raise him. Perhaps a servant who has lost a child?''

The guard nodded. ''I wish him to be as my son,'' he said. ''But my duties make it hard for me...'' He stopped as the child's head came up, his eyes wide.

''You would be my father?'' he asked in a high voice.

''Well — in a way, look after you, anyway, until you are older.''

Hamir pressed himself against Zochana and nodded vehemently.  
''I want to be a soldier, like you.'' He felt safe around this man, who accorded ill with memories of his real father, dead in a drunken brawl in the northern city of Pamar.

Khanad smiled at the pleased embarrassment on Zochana's face.

''You see, he has already chosen a profession.''

''He can stay with us,'' Vanimórë agreed, with a long look at Elgalad. ''For a time.''

''When Captain Zochana is on d-duty,'' added Elgalad at the child's fearful look, and his voice eased something in the thin face.

''Which is now,'' the man said. ''At sunset, until dawn.''

''Come and h-have something to eat.'' Elgalad held out a hand. ''There is a soft b-bed, and in the morning we will take thee b-back to the Captain.'' His smile was kind and after a moment Hamir disengaged himself from the guard and nodded.

''Promise?''

''I promise, I will see you when you wake.'' Zochana nodded.

~~~

The child slept in the alcove which Aiana had used. His body scrubbed clean and his stomach full, he was young enough to let the horrors of the day be washed away by sleep. Elgalad drew a coverlet over him, let the curtains fall behind him as he walked into the main chamber.

Vanimórë had gone with Khanad while Elgalad, who was less intimidating to a young child, had supervised his bathing and meal, but he was now back, sitting at the great desk. He looked up and rose.

''He sleeps.''

''That is the best thing for him.''  
  
It was dark in the room; one lamp illuminated the table, but no other lights were lit. Elgalad moved to pour wine from a pitcher and his eyes fixed on the beloved face before him, so hard, so cold.

''Am I cold?'' Vanimórë murmured as if to himself, lifting the goblet to his mouth. ''Should I weep before thee?''

''Thou art not cold. I wish...I w-wish nothing had ever hurt thee." Elgalad's soft voice was passionate, "But to w-weep is not weak..."

''This is Arda Married, my dear.'' Vanimórë turned away. Elgalad saw the braced tension of his wide shoulders where the tattoos slashed down in aggressive, flowing curves. ''I saw it all...saw all her life, searching...a curse goading her on. She was hidden from me by Morgoth and Sauron. I believed so absolutely that she was..._safe!" _ At the pain in the word, Elgalad stepped forward and laid a hand on the rigid back.

''My grief allowed Morgoth to possess me, my fury when he struck thee made me fight back. Glorfindel's strength, his words to me, showed me _how_ to fight." He was silent for heartbeats. "If Vanya had never existed, if I had not loved her, then I would never have known what love was, I could never have loved thee, never have been merciful. She loved me and left me with that legacy... and hers was...'' Bitterness closed his throat. ''All the years I have lived I wanted to make Sauron pay for his usage of me. The chance was taken from me when the One Ring was destroyed. Until now. He fled before Morgoth was slain in New Cuiviénen. But he is here somewhere and when he has grown, taken form again — as he will, as he ever has — I will avenge her.''

He turned suddenly, eyes burning, and his mouth came down on Elgalad's, hungry, demanding. He felt the eager lips part under his, tasted wine and honey. He lost himself. The gasps and moans of desire from Elgalad were almost feverish. Blood burned under Vanimórë's skin, his veins ran with streams of fire.

"I know how it feels to have thee," he said against the warm throat. "Fëanor and I shared all our lives, I know how thou dost cry for more and more, how hot, how tight thou art, how thou dost writhe and arch thy back, wanton, beautiful...''

''Please — ''

The flesh under his mouth became hotter, he felt the surge of guilt meshed with memories of rapture, shame inextricably tangled with ecstasy.

''I swore to make Fëanor pay, but Eru has a sense of irony.'' He drew back, seeing the hectic flush on the high cheeks, eyes dark with the dilation of the pupils. ''And I do _not_ blame thee.''

Elgalad drew a shaking breath.  
''He w-was...''

''I know what he was.'' Vanimórë guided him toward the door of the bedchamber. ''Now, rest.''

''Stay with m-me?''

''Yes, this night I will.'' He needed Elgalad close to him, and as they lay down, he laced their fingers together.  
''Rest, my dear.''

_I cannot rest with thee so near. I never could._

_Nor can I rest, but thou art comfort and...I need that. _

The answer turned Elgalad's head on the pillow. He kissed Vanimórë's cheek, and both were silent in the scented dark of the night. ~

  


  



	31. Broken Silence

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
~ “It was but once that we lay together.” Eowyn did not color her words and Anwyn blushed faintly. ‘Lust is not love, though at times they grow so close it is difficult to see where one ends and the other begins. One may also have both, sometimes.”

Anwyn let herself sink lower into the cushion, remembering what Elphir had told her what seemed like only moments ago.

“I sought a release from sorrow with him. He found comfort with me, if only for a short time. It was not wrong.” Those final words were spoken with unwavering certainty.

There was a loud knock upon the door which sounded like thunder in the silence that had grown between them. Anwyn felt a stab of irritation; of all the poorly chosen times to be interrupted! Eowyn was likewise torn from her thoughts and rose without another word and drew open the door.

The hour was late and yet despite this it seemed as though few, if any slept. The tall figure of the King filled the doorway framed by the light of a torch, and Eowyn made a small sound in her throat that lay between a gasp and a laugh. Anwyn quickly struggled to her feet and bowed as much as her growing body would allow.  
“Your Majesty,” she said respectfully.

Eowyn's greeting to the King was decidedly informal. They embraced in the manner of old friends. Anwyn found herself uncertain whether she should remain standing or sit down once more.

“Lady Anwyn, I trust you are now thoroughly warmed?” Elessar asked kindly, and she was suddenly reminded that the cloak he had given her to wear was still in her chambers.  
“Yes, Sire, I am most comfortable, I thank you.”

Eowyn stood at the door, her hand lingering upon the latch as if unsure whether to leave or remain. After a moment she seemed to settle her inner debate and closed the door. The room suddenly seemed a great deal smaller as the presence of the King filled it.

Elessar settled himself into a seat, crossing one long leg over the other. His boots were generously splattered with dried mud and his clothes likewise told the tale of a long ride, but he seemed content to sit by the fire. Anwyn was quietly amused. It looked as though he had just returned from some great journey, as he had many times in his life before he assumed the kingship.

Silence stretched between them and only the fire spoke, whispering softly as it devoured the logs. The king stared into the flames and Anwyn imagined that there were few times he was permitted to sit in comfortable silence.

Eowyn's hand still rested on the door and her eyes moved from Aragorn to Anwyn. Despite her angry outburst of earlier she looked like the young noblewoman she truly was

It seemed the gods themselves had brought them all together, and Eowyn was a woman who had lived for too long and seen too much to throw away an opportunity of this importance.

“I hope I did not disturb you,” the king looked up. There was a weariness in his voice and were circumstances different Eowyn would have let him go to sleep where he was.

“I confess that I am glad you have come,” she said crossing the room with the king's gaze on her. Elessar’s eyes were precisely as she remembered from the first moment she had seen him; bright and intent. He had passed those eyes on to his daughter and Eowyn wondered how anyone could miss the similarity.

“I wish to tell Anwyn of her Father,” she went on, levelly. “I have kept this secret for too many years, from both of you. Aragorn, I would have you know your daughter.” ~

~~~


	32. A Turbulent Hiatus

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**New Cuiviénen**

~ Glorfindel would have permitted himself to smile in appreciation had destruction not come so close that it left burn marks, and a corpse upon the grass.  
He stared down at the lifeless figure. Even dead, a cold menace seemed to seep from it. But of course, Morgoth was not truly dead. He looked up as Fingolfin approached him.

"My brother?"

At the expression in his eyes Glorfindel stepped deliberately over Morgoth's body, rested a hand on Fingolfin's breast.

"Will return. I salute all of thee for this act. Vengeance is not always empty, is it?"

"Not always."

"Call our people together."

Fingolfin looked at him for a long, questioning moment, then inclined his head.

~~~

''I needed to face an old enemy and I think that enemy has turned and showed me mine own face.'' Maglor took a long draught of wine. ''But, Hells, I could not have imagined what took place here today.''

''No-one could.'' Tindómion was shaken, yet he burned with pride at what he had witnessed. ''Whomever it was who fought, Vanimórë or Fëanor, it was..._magnificent._ And Fingolfin...''

''My father must have enjoyed seeing that last blow,'' Maglor murmured. ''Let us go and see Fingolfin. He must be prince-regent until father...'' A look of confusion swept over his face. He remembered that his son knew nothing, and substituted what he had been about to say. ''Until he returns. Some of my brothers may speak against it.''

''I support him also.'' Tindómion laid a hand on his father's shoulder. ''Thou art sure that Fëanor will return?"

"I am sure. Come."

"Very well, but after I want thee to rest, father. Thou art injured." He traced a cut on Maglor's cheek without touching. "I feared for thee."

"At Vanimórë's hands?" Maglor asked, but his son shook his head.

"I have never feared he would harm thee."

"Dost thou judge me?" A flush mantled Maglor's cheeks, and then he found himself seized in a fierce embrace. Closing his eyes he returned it, as strongly and as dearly.

"I have never judged thee. I love thee."

Maglor kissed his son's brow, leaned his own against it, and they walked from the room together.

~~~

Glorfindel found the Great Hall in an uproar. Fingolfin stood facing Curufin, Amrod and Amras, while Maedhros, Maglor and Tindómion had ranged himself beside Fingolfin. Others of the Finwii stood in groups close by. Heated words flew between them; it only needed the one unsheathed weapon...

He said, the words ringing out as if in a call to battle: ''I come to speak to thee of Fëanor."

The noise ceased abruptly. All eyes turned to him.   
"By the grace of Eru he will return to us. Fanari Penlodiel has been chosen to bear Fëanor. He will be reborn as a child.'' He could not resist adding: ''And the son of Vanimórë.''

Silence fell like a slab of stone. The fierce, beautiful faces froze in shock.

Tindómion was the one to break it. He pushed past Curufin and strode through the motionless crowd.

''Reborn as a child, through Vanimórë and _my mother_?'' He searched for words. "_Why?_ Was this her choice, Glorfindel?" 

''She chose it freely. Ask her. As I have said, it is the will of Eru. None other can permit rebirth in this manner.''

''Why this way, Glorfindel?" Fingolfin asked, through a troubled frown. ''When we came from the Everlasting Dark, we were given forms like unto our old, all full-grown as when we died.''

''I do not know, uncle. Perhaps to have a mother's love.''

''Why her?'' Curufin's tone left none in any doubt of his feelings over the choice of the mother.

''She was ever a friend of the House of Fëanor.'' Tindómion whirled to face him. ''That is how she survived to bear me.''

''I think we all know _how_ she survived.'' The response was a sneer. ''We know that she loved Maglor without hope for many years.''

''_Be silent._'' Glorfindel's voice lashed with authority as Tindómion's face blanched and his hand flew to sword hilt. ''If _any_ of thee wish to be here when he is born, calm thyselves, now."

Tindómion stared murderously at Curufin, who glared back at him. The younger Fëanorion strode from from the hall.

''Whither away?'' He turned as Gil-galad fell in at his side.

''To see my mother."

''I will keep thee company.'' Gil-galad closed his hand about Tindómion's arm. ''Too much has happened. Let us walk.''

Tindómion slowed. ''Vanimórë was here, yet the One acted so that he did not meet Fëanor, but rather aided him. Hells, I will see that moment when Morgoth was slain all my life.''

''As will I." Gil-galad's eyes sparked with starfire.

Warriors in the colours of Fingolfin's House were stationed outside Fanari's house. Gil-galad and Tindómion exchanged a thoughtful glance.

''We were ordered here to ensure the lady is not disturbed,'' one of them saluted. ''But that does not apply to either of thee, my lords.''

When Fanari entered the chamber, her face wore an expression familiar to her son. It was a look which promised a fight, and did not ease when she saw her visitors.

''Yes,'' she challenged as she bowed to Gil-galad.

''Yes — what?'' Tindómion asked in perplexity, watching her move to pour wine.

''Yes, I am carrying Fëanor. I agreed to it willingly. If Eru wishes him to be reborn as a babe, He surely has a reason."

''But Vanimóre, mother! Hast thou thought of what that may mean?''

''Yes, it did occur to me," she said dryly. "I asked him.''

''Miriel died,'' her son said quietly. ''Didst thou also consider that?''

She nodded. Her face was calm, now. ''Vanimórë spoke of Fëanor having a mother. We have been given a new life. We are not diminishing now, we are renewed." Her eyes searched his face, and he saw glory, the fall of cities, blood, tears, death. "I will be a mother to the Spirit of Fire and love him, as I love thee.''

''I know, mother, I know.'' Tindómion clasped her hands, and was alarmed when she burst into tears like a summer shower.

~~~

The storm had passed east over the mountains, and the evening sun flashed upon the waters of Gaear Gwathluin. A breeze soughed in the trees as Tindómion and Gil-galad left Fanari's house. The air smelled fresh, wild and clean and they paused, looking west over the vast waters.

''Gil," Tindómion turned. "I am sorry that our loyalties were divided.''

''I am sorry also.'' There was an edge to his tone. ''Perhaps I was so long accustomed to thy fealty that I find it difficult to accept where thy allegiance lies now."

''Thou hast ever my fealty.''

''Do I indeed?''

The silver eyes glinted.  
''When thou art a king again, then thou wilt have everything of me.''

''If I leave here with my people and found a kingdom, thou wilt come with me?'' Gil-galad raised his brows.

"There are many who follow thee. I not the least.''

The breeze drew cool fingers through their hair.

''Ereinion, thy mother named thee, a high, cold name, yet a true one. Ever will I see thee like a star under the sun, when all the Eldar owned thee as their High King and battle commander. _My star._'' There were bright and bitter memories in his voice.

''I fell.'' Gil-galad's mouth set.

''Many fell, Gil. Sauron wanted thee to lose thy mind in blood-madness.''

''Nevertheless.''

"Do not carry the guilt for thine own death, we know now we were both cursed." Tindómion's hands closed on Gil-galad's arms. "I would live our life over again. I would go home, to Lindon.'' His voice dropped into velvet; his mouth came down on Gil-galad's. It was a hard, bruising kiss that cast them both back in time.

Tindómion drew back, smiling now. "Let us live our lives _ as they should have been._"

''We are still dancing the old dance, Istelion.''

Their quick breathing mingled.

''Thee and thy father, both of thee run from that which thou dost want.'' Gil-galad strode away. ''But when I am king once more I will _demand_ everything of thee Istelion Maglorion Fëanorion. I will have all thou canst give, and more.''

~~~

The gathered Noldor stood looking at the headless body which defiled the palace gardens. The great wound in the stomach was black, the hair burned away; the features on the detached head were cruel, a snarl twisted the mouth.

_He was beautiful once, dark but beautiful, in Valinor. We did not know what lay under that facade. But this — this is how I knew him when he slew me..._

Fingolfin stared at the corpse with eyes that shone in the waning light, then he raised his head, looking into the limitless, burning red of the west.

_Fëanor, my brother. At last we did meet him. And did not fall. _

''Sire?'' One of his lords spoke. ''What should we do with it?''

''We will set it in stone and it will remain here as a monument,'' Fingolfin said. ''I would like my brother to see it — when he is older.'' ~

~~~


	33. Storm-Rise In The South

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

 

  
~ **Mumak, north of Tanith. ~ **

~ The state of wary truce that had existed between Mumak and Tanith during the lasts years of Taraluk's reign had begun to show cracks soon after Khanad took the throne. Spies from Mumak reported the intensive training of the Tanithian army. A realm did not train its army for no purpose. The exercises initiated by the new Warlord extended now to the borders of the crumbling mountains which divided the two kingdoms.

In earlier times, Mumak had made serious efforts to conquer Tanith, but these had been stymied by the fact that only three passes lead into that rich land. The watch-fires from the forts were eyed by the Mumakans, just as their own were watched by the sentries in the Tanithian border towers.  
The passes presented no real problem to an army on foot, but they came down into open savanna, which terrain was perfect for the use of the mighty Mumakil. The great creatures might be cumbersome, but they could move at a speed greater than one would expect from their size, and wreak havoc both among cavalry and infantry. Tanith had learned that they could be killed or panicked to scatter, but any plan to invade Mumak had to take them into account.

The Harad was a hot-bed of war, though war of course, was expensive and although there were many border skirmishes, there were fewer battles. Most kingdoms had enough internal intrigue to keep them occupied within their own borders, and a great many of the southern nations had suffered losses in Gondor, retiring to lick their wounds. Babes grew up fatherless and were fed the tale of the wrath of the Men of the West on the Field of the Pelennor. The Harad feared the High Kingdom and looked north. But the threat was not in the north; it was far in the south.

The Tanithians could move fast. The King of Mumak had no warning that he was being attacked until a carrier pigeon arrived with a scrawled note from his ambassador in Tanith.

Ebala had been expecting war to come one day under this new young King. Khanad had been a youth during the last border war. It had been a brief and vicious affair, and Ebala had ordered the heads of the dead Tanithians to be staked before the passes as a warning. Khanad had never forgotten. The Mumakani ruler smiled, considered the recklessness of youth, and ordered his forces to the Plain of Duba, certain that he could smash the invaders as he and his ancestors had before.

But before, he had not met an army lead by Vanimórë.

The Warlord's forces had been joined in the foothills of the mountains by two soldiers, dusty, sweating and resolute. They passed the ranks of the legions, saluted before Khanad.

The king's mouth was stern as he surveyed them.

''You have deserted your posts, soldiers.''

''No Sire.'' Cartha swallowed dust. ''We are warriors of the Kings legion.''

''There is no such company,'' Khanad pointed out.

''If it please you, sire, there is now,'' Zochana said.

Vanimórë's eyes were amused.  
_Thou canst not buy such loyalty, Khanad. I would attach them to thy bodyguard. They are good men._

The Legion of the Cobra and Hawk had marched to the smaller passes lest a thrust be made from Mumak through them, but this was doubtful. Vanimórë had made sure Mumak knew that the main force of Tanith was using the Trebaka Pass, that the King rode at its head, and was directly challenging Ebala.  
From what he had learned, the older ruler was too proud to divert his army and sneak around their backs. He would want to teach arrogant young Khanad a bitter lesson. But in Tanith City, ships waited to bear away the royal household should matters go ill. Khanad was being cautious.

At dawn they watched the rising sun light flash from the metal of armor across the great plain below.

''His cavalry will be behind the infantry,'' Khanad murmured as he reined in. ''That is how it was done before.''

''We can deal with the cavalry.'' Vanimórë's eyes glinted through the eye-slot of his helm. His armor was night-black, the plume the colour of his eyes. He would use cavalry in the future, but there had not been enough time to train them for this war. That would come.

Ebala's war chariot was to the right of the Mumakil. He was an older man, but accoutered in full armor, and he smiled through his neat beard as the advancing Tanithians marched on, spreading out until their ranks were but one man deep.

His smile vanished in wonderment, what were they trying to do? Outflank the Mumakil?

And then they began to run.

Astonishment rippled through the Mumakani soldiers. This charge was as suicidal as children running at a cliff face. A horn blew and the great beasts began to lumber forward, the impact of their advance slamming the ground.

There was something amiss here, but Ebala could not quite see it...

A trumpet sounded then, and on that signal the Tanithians came to a halt, laid down their shields and sprinted back. Their hearts pounded as they raced, almost feeling the sharpened tusks of the beasts ripping into them, the trunk-like legs pounding them into a bloody mess on the plain.

Vanimórë watched, judging the timing to a heartbeat.

_Now._ His voice was cool. He raised his bow and an hundred ells to his left Elgalad did the same. The arrow tips flamed, described an arc in the air and flashed down. Hands that moved faster than the human eye could follow fired burnings shafts one after the other and the downed shields of naphtha-soaked hide over a frame of wood, flared alight even as the Mumakil came upon them.

All creatures were afraid of fire. The beasts came to trumpeting halts rearing up, wheeling aside.

_Hit the war towers. _ Vanimórë fitted another blazing arrow.

The woven-reeds caught, bloomed like flowers atop the backs of the Mumakil, who stampeded in terror back toward the drawn up ranks of the cavalry. They were far enough away to make a retreat which was not entirely a route, and would regroup, but the huge beasts were scattered, bearing their burning war towers with them.

The trumpet heralded the order to march.

Warriors lead forward Vanimórë and Elgalad's war horses. They mounted and galloped to Khanad. Through the dust which now hung over the plain nothing could be seen. Ebala's charioteer had taken the King out of harm's way and, for the moment, out of sight.

The legions lined up in silence, The Lion, the Hawk, the Raven and began to march, preparing for the onset of the Mumakani cavalry. Visibility was still poor, the ocher dust thick as fog.

_Draw back among the Lion, Khanad. _ Then Vanimórë's mental command reached every man.  
_ Form up. Spears forward._

Khanad had known he must fall back. It irked him, but it was true that nothing would sap the morale of an army faster than the loss of its leader.  
Vanimórë and Elgalad rode back through the murk to where the hand-picked men waited. All were tall, a requirement of those who wielded the long bow. Dismounting, Vanimórë tilted his head, knelt and felt the ground; smoke and dust swirled past him.

_I hear them. Arrows on string._

The Mumakani were also hampered by the dust, but it was beginning to thin a little now, and the dulled glint of helm and armor winked in the billowing clouds.

_Fire arrows! Volley! _

The shafts sang from the bows, arching over the stationary legions, locked into a shield-wall that bristled with spears, and the missiles punched down into the lines of the advancing horses. The arrow storm was deliberately aimed at the flanks so that the animals and their riders instinctively drew in toward the center. Soldiers toppled, horses bolted, and then the first ranks came up against the Tanithians.

Horses, however well trained, would not charge headlong at a spiked barricade. Some reared, offering their bellies to the spears, others fought the bits, turning to run. There was a roar like sea-surf as the din of battle broke over the plain: the crack of weapon on shield, screams, the striving grunts of men, cries from terrified horses.

_Keep beside me, _ Vanimórë had instructed Elgalad, and the war-trained stallions wheeled and trod blood like shadows of one another. Both creatures were living weapons, using teeth and killing forefeet against the enemy.

They broke through into a clear space and galloped on, bloodied from helm to heel, before Vanimórë looked back. The legions had buckled after a token resistance to allow the Mumakani through and then, in a smooth return, had closed back, locking the enemy behind their lines. The ground lay littered with dead. Behind the lines they clashed and fought.

_Too confident...that is what happens after one too many victories._ Vanimórë stared north and saw the retreating king in his chariot surrounded by guards. He set his heels to his mount's flank.

Ebala's guard looked back and their hands moved, drawing bows. The horses did not slow but swerved apart, obedient to the pressure of the riders legs, who then whipped aside, flinging themselves down along the animals flanks as the shafts sped past.

But not all the arrows missed. Vanimórë felt the abrupt lurch of his mount, knew it had been struck. He threw himself off in a roll, heard Elgalad's call into his mind.

_ Ware arrows. Ride on, _ he ordered, and launched into a sprint. An arrow point careened from his helm as the archers fired wildly before some order brought them turning to face the enemy. They had time...they had...

The pale haired rider leaped from his saddle, nocked his great bow, and two shafts pierced the overlapping scales of the bronze armor. The remaining two men were left staring at a black-armored warrior who ran like a cheetah toward them. One arrow skimmed the breastplate and bounced off. There was a flash of steel as two corpses sagged and rolled from the saddles.

Ebala's chariot was far beyond, the driver whipping the two horses in a frenzy toward the safety of the city of Ulid. The driver was hurled from his place, landing on his head, his neck snapping. As the horses began to slow, Ebala felt a knife blade at his throat.

''Wilt thou give up thy realm or thy life, Ebala?'' asked a rich voice in his ear.

~~~

Orders had gone out to Ulid that no retaliation was to be made against the Tanithians who had taken Ebala as their hostage. He was guarded, treated with courtesy as Khanad and his chosen advisers met.

All of them bore wounds and there had been many deaths, although less than Khanad had feared. Once the lumbering Mumakil were stampeded, he was confident that his heavy infantry could meet the cavalry. Now in the aftermath, he drank wine, his face pale, eyes bright.

"Cartha," he said. "You hail from another realm.''  
  
Cartha's helmet rim had been driven into his brow and he bore a red-stained dressing, but doggedly refused to rest. The words that Vanimórë had spoken still hung in the air.  
''What would your people do?'' Khanad asked.

The soldier cast a look at Vanimórë. His helm was off but he still wore his armor, now cleansed of blood, and there was no trace of weariness in him. Elgalad stood nearby, outwardly calm as milk.

"The Warlord is correct, Sire. If Ebala lives, he will ever be a rallying point for rebellion.''

''I do not like this, it smacks of treachery.'' The King rose, limping slightly. ''It is something that Taraluk would have done.''

''It is something any King must do, if he would hold what he conquers,'' Vanimórë said. ''Thou shouldst order his death and the death of _all his descendants,_ unto to the youngest child.''

Khanad's eyes widened. ''I will not have children murdered,'' he stated. ''How would that make me any better than Taraluk?''

''So be it.''   
Khanad had not expected this and if he had been older might have been suspicious. 

''But Ebala must be executed, his women his children brought to Tanith; all his offspring must be under thine eyes, not here in Mumak to plot.''

''What of exile?''

''People will fear Tanith now. Any land with an eye to the future would support Ebala, feeding him gold for troops, hoping he will reclaim his land and push thee back whilst keeping themselves aloof from it. An exiled king is a danger as long as he lives.''

There was a long silence before Khanad nodded.  
''Then I bow to your greater experience in these matters.''

Vanimórë nodded and lifted the tent flaps.

''You will do it yourself?'' Khanad was startled.

Vanimórë's head turned slightly. ''Why not?''

This time the quiet stretched. Elgalad looked down, brows drawn.  
Khanad wished that Gthar was here, but he had ordered him to remain in Tanith.

A breath of sunbaked air, tainted with blood and smoke wafted in as the flap was raised again. Vanimórë stepped through, casually tossing something onto the floor.  
Ebala's head rolled to a stop, blood oozing from the severed stump of his neck.

''Have it mounted, and set before the gates of Ulid. Let them see it. They must witness that he is indeed dead.'' Vanimórë laid a hand on Elgalad's back and lead him out.

Zochana rose and wrapped a cloak about the object in silence but Khanad, looking at the space where his warlord had been, murmured: "And so it begins.''

~~~

Vanimórë went to the field hospital. He had seen too many battlefields where the wounded and dying were left to meet their end in agony, and he had ordered that poppy be brought to drug the men while the physicians worked. The air smelled like a slaughter-house. He stripped to the waist and began to work. Sometimes the bitter edge of his scimitars cut cleanly through a limb when he saw that it could not be saved. Elgalad brought vinegar, honey, curved needles, bandages and splints; he too had experience of war. 

It was almost dawn when they came from the tent. The plain was waterless, save for Ulid's springs, but the citizens had sent water casks. Vanimórë went to a barrel, drew a bucket and cleansed himself, then turned to Elgalad and washed him, then went to their own tent. Wine and food was brought, and they sat. Elgalad poured the wine and, feeling the brilliant eyes on him, looked up.

''Kings must do things which leave their hands bloody.'' Vanimórë took a long drink. ''I could not act without Khand's consent, but had he not given it, Ebala would have died anyway.''

Elgalad sat back on his heels. Vanimórë had been dark of mood since the discovery of his sister, her life, and death. He had thrown himself into the preparations for war as if he were determined to conquer Mumak just for something to do, to keep his grief at bay. Elgalad ached for him in so many ways; anguish _for_ him, need _of_ him. Still Vanimórë had not touched him, save for fleeting gestures of affection. Elgalad had been sure he would, if only as a balm against anguish.

The dark head was bent now, black lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. The brazier hissed quietly, the pellet of incense smoldering in it banishing the taint of war from the air.

Slowly he looked up, burning purple eyes in a white face, beckoning Elgalad with no word, no gesture, simply with that touch on the heart.

"There is nothing th-thou canst do or say that will drive m-me from thee," Elgalad said, and knelt before him. Vanimórë slipped a hand into the wet silver hair.   
''Why Maglor, and not me?"

''We are bound from long ago, whether he denies it or not.'' Vanimórë's eyes burned like embers in a dying fire. "I cannot take everything from him, because he loves another more than I. But thou — " He reached out and jerked Elgalad against him, felt the instant response. "I would take all. And I want to."

Elgalad shuddered and Vanimórë's blood raged into flame. Silver hair spilled across the floor as Elgalad arched back, making sounds that drove a hammer of lust straight into Vanimórë's groin. His tongue brushed over hard nipples, sucked them as Elgalad writhed. Under his breeches he was hard. Vanimórë drew them down, took the erection deep into his throat. Elgalad hissed, cried out, his hands in Vanimórë's hair.

''Take me.'' The words were torn from him even as he came to release. ''Take m-me!''

Vanimórë ripped at his own tunic. The tattoos swirled and stretched as he went down on his hands and knees. Elgalad moaned, ''Yes,'' as he moved down. His lips touched hot, engorged flesh, and he greedily took it in, moistening it with his mouth, tasting the essence.

Vanimórë drew in his breath at the sensation which was so shockingly erotic that each nerve burned afresh, and then he felt himself released. Elgalad turned, offering himself.

''_Now,_'' he panted.

He was _so...damnably beautiful..._ Vanimórë closed his hands on the slender hips.

''Sir,'' A soldier's voice called from outside the tent. ''A delegation rides from Ulid, the King calls for thee.''

''Hells!'' Vanimórë swore, and raised his head.  
''Tell the King I will be there,'' he replied calmly and rose to his feet, looking down at Elgalad who was almost sobbing with frustration.

''Sometimes...I hate war.'' ~

~~~

  


 


	34. Flesh And Blood

 

(written by Anwyn)

  
~ Anwyn stiffened as though she had been struck by a spear. The roar of blood in her ears drowned out all sound, but she saw the King, _her father !_ rise at once to his feet. His his lips moved; he gestured toward her and spoke but she did not hear what he said. Eowyn was also quick to rise to her feet, her face bright with anger. Unconsciously she had placed herself before Anwyn as though shielding her.

The calm of the room was shattered and shakily Anwyn stood upon uncertain legs that threatened to give way, her expression was young and naked. The wild beating of her heart and her breathing were hard and she fought to slow them. The King and White Lady of Ithilien stood now in silence, eyes upon her, and for a moment she felt small beneath the weight of their joined gazes. Then, suddenly remembering herself she drew herself up, lifted her head and locked her knees so that she would not sway.

“I must go...” The waver in her tone betrayed her desire to escape. The final stone of truth had been lain in place so tightly that within her mind that no longer a small crack for even a trickle of doubt. The King looked at her as though he had never seen her before, as though she were some fantastic creature which had leapt from myth. She thought his eyes pierced to her very soul and she felt vulnerable, but forced herself to meet them.

“Why was I not told?” Aragorn looked at Eowyn, who stood tall, her head unbowed and Anwyn felt herself loose a breath she hadn’t even realized she had been holding. There was nothing to suggest Eowyn felt even a small touch of shame. When she spoke, her tone carried a hint of challenge.  
“What place would an illegitimate child of the King have in the court of Gondor?” she asked pointedly, with an apologetic glance at her daughter.

“If the choice were put before me once more, I would have never allowed you to be taken from me, Anwyn.” Eowyn continued. “It was the decision of my brother that our daughter be raised in secret, that she would be kept safe and not to live a life held beneath the shadow of her birth.”

“I would have protected her,” Aragorn protested softly, and Eowyn smiled wistfully at this.

“I have no doubt but it was not only this, there were new unions forged. Anwyn was born of neither; what place would she have had?”

“It matters little now,” Anwyn interrupted no longer content to simply listen. “For I shall tell you both that I never wanted for aught and I was loved well. I was raised amongst my kin and I was happy. A child could not want for more than that.”

Aragorn considered this for a long moment and then slowly, almost reluctantly nodded. Anwyn felt as though she were struggling to keep her footing as though she walked upon ice and were bound to slip and fall at any moment. At long last she had learned who sired her; and it was the Re-Uniter of Gondor and Arnor, the heir of Elendil. A king.  
Certainty was slowly settling upon her, the finality of a decision she did not recall making.  
“It has been hidden for all of this time. I would ask you now that it be kept a secret still.”

“You are of my blood; I would still know you as my daughter, Anwyn.” Aragorn started forward towards her and she felt uncertainty brush against her heart. The resolve that had flowed so strongly through her moments ago wavered for she desired this also.

“You still may,” she answered quietly. “Though let this be kept between us…Sire.” The word _Father_ would not move past her lips, she had given that title to another man for so long she found herself struggling. “I am most content with my life.”

“Do you fear it lady?” he pressed, and she could see his surprise at her request.

“I do not, but it would not be my life alone that would be changed by this.” She glanced at her mother, whose name she would not allow to be tarnished by scandal.

“You are content to be known as a woman of illegitimate birth?”

“I shall never be _content_ with it, yet it remains the truth. That shall never be changed whether it is known you are my sire or it is not. Though it did initially hurt me,” Anwyn confessed. “But I have grown to accept it.”  
Eowyn laid a gentle hand upon her shoulder, offering wordless comfort and Anwyn placed her own over it as she looked straightly at the King.

“I am sorry Anwyn, for that is true, It is beyond my power to change the circumstance of your birth, and I cannot give you a title.” At this a small smile tugged at the edges of Anwyn’s mouth.

“More titles only make for longer introductions, I do not ask that you bestow any upon me.”

The King brushed a weary hand across his eyes and Anwyn felt herself also beginning to wilt, and willing to sleep. Contentment slowly took the place of shock and confusion; she knew the truth even were she not ready to accept it completely.

Aragorn had chuckled softly at her response. “I see so much of you in her Eowyn. I am not a man with a heart of stone, Anwyn. I have the desires and wants of any other, but I did not know I had fathered another child. If I had, I swear to you it would have been different.”

“You have your family as I have mine. I am no longer a child.” She realized that in fact her family had increased once more, she now had half-sisters and a half _brother_ as well.

“Indeed you are not,” the King agreed, his gaze moving down to her rounded belly upon which Anwyn laid a protective hand. Her wedding band shone upon her finger and it struck Aragorn then that he knew much of this woman, yet in a mere moment she had become so much more to him, another thread that had so intricately woven itself into the rich tapestry of his own life.

Anwyn felt weary, as though she had just journeyed a great distance in a short time. She had been given a glimpse into a past where two paths had briefly crossed, and from where they intersected another life was begun in the dawn following a night of blood and death.

If she read his expression correctly, it seemed that the thoughts of the King were similar to her own. She was gifted with a new perspective of this king, and he was not lessened in her eyes, but now she could see beneath the cloth of his great deeds that there was a man of flesh and blood, the same blood which she knew now to run through her own veins.

There was a knock upon the door and Faramir entered. He took in the sight of his wife, his king and the Lady of Dol Amroth with a nod as though he had already somehow divined what had happened. Anwyn had most never taken the Stewart for a fool, though she wondered now if he had known all this time. Whether or no, she trusted him absolutely.

It suddenly occurred to her that Faramir would have not disturbed them unless he had great need, or it had grown very late, or very early depending how one chose to view it. The circumstances that had lead to this momentous disclosure tumbled back. Her anger had flown from her and she was more than ready to return to her husband.~

~~~


	35. The Stirring

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
  
**New Cuiviénen**

 

~ A simmering silence descended over the Noldor as the year came to its end and emerged into the first days of spring.  
Curufin, Amrod and Amras did not choose to visit Fanari, but whatever her thoughts or wishes, they knew no-one was going to keep them from their reborn father when the time came. As it was. they felt unmoored as they had when he had died so long ago.

The other Fëanorions did frequently see Fanari, and she thought that they observed her as if she might explode like a hot glass bowl placed in cold water. She felt well enough, though more weary than when she had carried Tindómion, but she expected that. She was both amused and touched that Tindómion was so solicitous of her comfort.

''Thou art not speaking with Gil-galad?'' she asked as she sat in the in-falling sunlight, a book at hand. She had brought it from Imladris. The histories written in the Second Age were heavily canted against the Noldor, and she, with a group of others, were re-writing them.  
"Again," she added.

''I am speaking with him.'' Tindómion looked up from stirring the fire. It was was early Spring and there was still a sharp, green chill to the air. The small glow and murmur of flame was comforting; herbs had been strewn upon the braziers and burned a scented smoke.

''I see,'' she said. ''Well, do not thou offer to marry anyone simply because it is easier than facing thy true feelings.''

He shook his head, smiled faintly. ''It was an honorable offer."

Her eyes held a mischievous glint. "I should have accepted, just to see his face."

Tindómion laughed aloud, then sobered. "Perhaps everything we desire comes to pass soon or late. Once, thou wouldst have said yes."

"A long time ago." She struck out something in the book with a grimace, then set her pen aside. "And how would such a marriage have prospered? Did Fingon's and Rosriel's? Maglor has to find, or rather admit, whom he _is_ for. And thou — thou knowest whom _thou_ art for." She made a movement of one hand, said consideringly: "Well, before any other, at least. I did see the two of thee in Lindon.''

"I know." He was blushing.

"And I have seen other things here.''

''Yes." He threw up his hands. "Mother, it is so difficult."

"Thou art making it difficult," she exclaimed. "Two rams butting heads!"  
  
At that, Tindómion unwillingly laughed again.  
"That bad?"   
  
"Thou knowest it is that bad."  
  


There was a knock at the door and Glorfindel entered. Fanari rose and he pressed her down in the seat, looking at the swell of her stomach.

''I can feel him," he said. "Even so young. Yet thou art well. I have been watching thee closely.''

"Every-one has. I can feel him too." She cast a sudden look up at him. "Ah, thou art strengthening me?"

"Not I alone, Vanimórë also. Yes, thou art strong, but we want to be sure. After all, Miriel died."

"I will be here for him," she said firmly.

"Yes. And thou wilt be a good mother. I am glad no-one has disturbed thee."

"They imputed she enjoyed rape, yet thou didst prevent me from calling Curufin out," Tindómion's voice carried anger.

''For Eru's sake, we do not permit duels here." His mother threw the book to one side. "Curufin has a savage tongue, but I will not wilt under it, Now, forget the matter, I have told thee: I have to come to accommodation with all of them. I cannot prevent them seeing their own father, and I would not an I could.''

Glorfindel's eyes met Tindómion's for a moment and then he smiled, and leaned to kiss Fanari's cheek.  
"That is wise," he said. "And gracious. Once he is born not the breaking of the world could prevent his sons from claiming their father." 

~~~

Tindómion had taken to reporting his mother's condition to Fingolfin almost daily. He had seen the waiting pain, the loss in Fingolfin's eyes since the night Morgoth had been vanquished. The prince-regent had lost his half-brother once, and although Fëanor had not precisely died, he was gone. Today, Gil-galad was with him. Both were deep in conversation, which they broke off when Tindómion entered.   
  
"My thanks," Fingolfin smiled when Tindómion told him Fanari was well. "Come and sit down, for what we were discussing concerns thee also." When wine had been poured, and they had drunk, he went on: ''I think we have all come to accept that so long as we are all here together, there will be some discord.''   
  
"Too many egos," Tindómion said. "It was bound to happen."  
  
"Of course it was." Fingolfin watched the bronze-haired Fëanorion and his grandson, saw the desire that ran between them, the thread of fire which linked their two Houses, flame calling to flame. Yet Tindómion still held himself aloof from Gil-galad, although one could sense the effort that involved.  
  
"I want to return to Lindon," Gil-galad said.   
  
Tindómion's eyes sparked. "That is thy place," he said.   
  
''We must speak with Glorfindel, but I support the decision. Yet for now...'' Fingolfin paused as there came a rap at the door. One of the door-wards opened it, admitting a figure cloaked in furred velvet. She pushed back the deep cowl, and went down in a low reverence, a smile folding her mouth.

''Mother?'' Tindómion went to her quickly. "Is something amiss?''

''Quite the opposite.'' She turned to Fingolfin. ''Sire, I wanted to tell thee that he has quickened.''

She parted the cloak and laid her hand on her stomach. Fingolfin uttered a wordless sound of intense emotion, and Fanari crossed to him, inclining her head as he reached out a hand. He touched her stomach and his star-blue eyes widened.

''I can feel him,'' he said, and laughed. Gil-galad looked at Tindómion; they shared a smile.

The young Fëanor moved again in Fanari's womb, and she gasped.   
''He knows thee.'' Her laughter joined the other's. ''I knew he would. He knows thee, and he will know his sons!'' ~

~~~


	36. Duties And Desires

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**Tanith**

  
~ Messengers had caught up with Sathari's entourage and given her the news of the Mumakan defeat. They told her that Ebala's head had been displayed, Mumak's army all but smashed, that Mumak had surrendered. Khanad had been magnanimous in victory.

The monotonous sway of the great litter seemed to wear time itself away as they breasted mountain passes where eagles wheeled on updrafts, and goats poised themselves on crags. Sometimes Sathari thought it would never end, and was almost too numb to notice the change of terrain as they crossed into Tanith, blessed by rain from the Straits of the World. Rounded hills rose like a woman's shoulders, and the road lead between vineyards before sloping down to the city.

Chey Sart was land-locked. Sathari had never seen the sea, and the scent of it seemed to blow the tedium of the journey from her mind as she peered from the curtains of the litter. Just as well, she thought. She had things to do here that required a sharp mind. 

''It is beautiful,'' she conceded, hearing for the first time the quarrelsome cry of the gulls.

Khanad had prepared an official welcome for his bride-to-be. Lines of Royal Guard in scarlet plumes and burnished breastplates flanked her path. When the palanquin was set down, the drapes were pulled aside and a man helped her out.

This was not the king, she decided. The man was middle-aged, with intelligent eyes in a lean face. Sathari's legs were stiff from sitting and she would have paused to stretch save that one must not show weakness. She straightened and walked with her head high. The gems of nobles flashed as they bowed and before her, waiting, stood the king.

He was as handsome as rumor had him, although this was of no importance in the matter of marriage. Glossy black hair curved about his straight-featured face, and his eyes were a dark grey under well marked brows. His voice, as he extended his hand to her, was mellow.

''Welcome to Tanith, Princess-daughter of Chey Sart. I trust your journey was not too arduous?'' He spoke in the common tongue of the South, but Sathari had not expected him to know Cheyan.

''Not at all, Sire. I thank you, your welcome is refreshment in itself. You are gracious.''

She was hungry, thirsty and homesick for her own land, but she painted a smile upon her mouth and stood spear-straight. Khanad bowed. ''You must rest before the festivities begin, Princess. You will be shown to your rooms and take your ease.''

His consideration surprised her, but she inclined her head and was lead up the shallow stone steps to the palace gate.  
Three people caught her eye as the king passed through the great archway. They had not been outside, so were clearly high-ranking and lived within the palace itself. One was a woman robed in cloth-of-gold shot with silver, a veil held to her brow with a circlet of emeralds. The men who stood beside her...

Sathari heard Ulela whisper a charm against evil under her breath, and would have done the same had she been less well-bred. Both men were tall; one with hair so black it shone faintly blue under the sun, the other's silver. Their skin was white, their faces so beautiful she wondered for a dislocating moment if they were carvings. They looked unreal until they bowed, hands going to their breasts.

''My Warlord.'' Khanad paused. ''The Lord Vanimórë and his companion Lord Elgalad...and my Prime Concubine Aiana, would greet you, Princess. ''

Sathari stiffened. Ulela stifled a gasp of outrage. This was an open insult. One expected concubines, but also that they be kept out of sight. And Sathari now saw the unmistakable roundness of pregnancy under the woman's robes. She mastered herself enough to return the courtesy before the king drew her on, but within her calm facade she shook with anger. Clearly, he meant to show her at the outset that this particular concubine was favored.

''There will be a feast this evening,'' Khanad told her as she entered the chambers prepared for her. ''You will be conducted to it. Rest well, Princess.'' With a bow, he walked away surrounded by his guards, and Sathari's attendants entered. Ulela crossed to the bedchamber, examined it with grudging approval and lead Sathari to a long divan.

''I think my lord father is going to be disappointed,'' Sathari said in the high Cheyan tongue. "Barbarians!"

~~~

In Khanad's Tanith women no longer need go veiled, and wives and daughter were included in the invitations to the palace. This deviation from tradition had not been welcomed among the older generation, accustomed to submissive and complaint women, but some of the younger were emulating their king in behavior, dress and in the treatment of their ladies. It was a more youthful court now and gayer. Somewhat coincidentally many of the older noblemen had died, and their sons and heirs, overjoyed at this astonishing good fortune, were staunch supporters of the equally young king.

Certainly the court was strange to Sathari. She sat stiffly encased in brocade and her head-dress, with its chiming discs of gold and gems, pressed on her brow and caused her head to ache. Many of the women had sported filigree gold and silver wire tiaras from which floated gossamer and strings of jewels. These tinkled like rain as they turned their heads, whispered behind perfumed fans. Their flowing gowns were of softest silk, and they moved in billows of blue, green and pearl-white.

''She is like a block of wood,'' murmured one of Aiana's servant girls. ''So formal. She must have a spear under that monstrous gown, she sits so straight.''

''She will be lucky to have the Royal spear under it,'' giggled her friend. ''I wonder are all Cheyan's like that?''

There were fire-eaters, jugglers and acrobats, an array of dishes and plenteous wines. Aiana and Sathari sat silently through the ordeal, both as ill-at-ease as the other, had they known it.

Khanad was aware of their tension, but he had learned young in the corrupt court of Taraluk to appear at ease even when death and poison stood at one's shoulder. He knew that having Aiana publicly greet the Princess of Chey Sart would be seen as a calculated insult, but Vanimórë had said, _"Never apologize, never explain. A new king cannot afford to, and older kings are too wise to do so."_

Sathari was familiar with formal feasts, but as a daughter of the Great Khagan had always been treated with the utmost respect. Here she was being ogled, _ judged,_ by this gathering of barbarians. She ate little, and was cautious with the wine. Her eyes turned occasionally toward the two men she had seen earlier.

Her father had spoken of the strange fiend whom had lead the Tanithian armies, won their Great Games and been instrumental in defeating an ancient curse. _White Fiends,_ the oldest legends called them, something from a distant past.

Fiends. Sathari could believe that, although she had envisaged demons as being quite different. The fair one did not look evil; the Warlord however...she thought he might do anything. She regarded them with a kind of wary awe. Were fiends beautiful? Did it help them entrap the unwary?

Over-wrought, her nerves rubbed raw, she dismissed all her women save Ulela, and let the woman undress her. While she had been at feast, trunks and caskets had been carried into the chamber, and an inspection showed that they contained gowns, robes and jewels, all in Tanithian fashion. Ulele was wise enough to see their allure. She lifted a bed-gown, diaphanous silk with patterns of seed pearls swirling over it. Without comment Sathari let it be thrown over her head, then crawled under the coverlets, indicating that she was not of a mind to talk.

~~~

Vanimórë had hardly stopped since the battle in Mumak. Khanad had come to realize, as Elgalad had years before, that he rarely left anything to others. He was simply unused to delegating. Sauron had used him to _do,_ and no-one did it better. The army too, were kept alert. A guard on watch might be shocked when a voice behind him asked if all was well. A servant lax about cleaning the latrines would be jolted by a demand to know why the air smelled unwholesome. If some-one had skimped the polishing of their armor their warlord would notice.

When he was in his chambers he was usually working. Elgalad had never seen any-one who did so much and sometimes, it seemed, several things at once. He did not know that Vanimórë had developed this regimen over Ages to keep one step ahead of his Masters. It was too deeply ingrained in him to be relinquished.

Vanimórë had paused to speak with Khanad, and Elgalad returned to the chambers, removed his clothes and searched for oil to prepare himself. The thought made him shiver. He was desperate to feel Vanimórë on him, inside him. Vanimórë _would_ have taken him in Mumak, had they not been interrupted, but since then had withdrawn again. Yet it had given Elgalad confidence.

He moved restlessly, stretching out on the bed. His flesh burned, and his hand drifted down to his groin. Grasping his cock, he re-lived Fëanor's possessions of him, and swelled to pain, drawing on himself harder and harder. His coming was like the rush of sweat at the breaking of a fever.  
And still he burned.

The barest assertion of power brushed his mind and he slept instantly.

Vanimórë traced Elgalad's cheekbone, drew back the thick fall of hair which glimmered in the darkness. He bent his head and drank of the spilled essence, and his will strained against the iron bars of control.

"Eru, what do I do?" he whispered. There was no answer. There never was. Even the Valar had a choice.

"If only I could be sure I would not kill thee by taking everything. If only thou didst not give so much."

He looked at the lovely sprawl of Elgalad's body and shook his head.  
_ Too tempting. _  
For a moment he saw again Elgalad dead on that cold Lindon beach. It was too easy to imagine that he was dead now, dead of power, of too much love...  
_ I cannot loose him, but I do not know how long I can resist him. I do not know how I do it, day after day, night after night. He cannot know much it takes to withhold._ He turned away. _ And so I burn for him, and he for me. _

Elgalad had almost broken his resolve in Mumak. Men, after burying their weapons in the body of an enemy often sought to bury their own fleshly swords in the body of a woman or man. Vanimórë had no such excuse; war was a job to him and there were few times battle had shaken his composure. No, it had not been the aftermath of war that had overturned him, simply that his need overwhelmed him at times.

_I do love thee. I do want thee,_ he murmured into the sleeping mind. Elgalad moaned softly, as if he heard the words in his dreams.

Vanimórë went through to the next room, lit a lamp, sat down behind the table, then dropped his head into his hands.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

Night had fallen. From a high room in the palace came the sound of harping. Vanimórë followed it, settled as a horned owl upon the marble baluster, then stepped into the room on silent feet.

Maglor lifted his head, silver eyes distant. Then the harp fell with a spattering of notes. He rose. 

"What art _thou — ?_"

The question was lost under Vanimórë's mouth. Maglor's hands rose, curled into fists before they sank through loose hair, clamped on the hard-muscled back.

"What in the Hells?" he hissed as their lips parted. "Why art thou here? Have I not said I hate thee? Didst thou not understand a word of what I said?"

"Yes, thou wert very eloquent, thy body moreso than thy words." Warm breath teased his ear. "I do not ask for love, Maglor. I _enjoy_ thy hate."

He was as intoxicating as the white mead of Taniquetil, yet his burning brilliance was dark. As he tasted the smooth flesh, Maglor remembered Barad-dûr, the insight he had gained there in guilt and hatred. Vanimórë was so flagrantly _sexual,_ so like Fëanor, but with him Maglor did not feel guilt. And so. And so...

There was the slither of discarded clothing, the brush of air, the warmth of a mouth over his hardness. Vanimórë groaned and rose. Their steps meshed like dancers as he backed Maglor toward the bed, mouths meeting, fierce and hungry. They struck the silk covers together, and a cry was torn from Maglor's throat. Pleasure flooded him like flame, and the fire became a place where he could burn, guiltless and free.

"Thou art _magnificent_." The words brought Maglor's rill of black lashes sweeping up. He felt Vanimórë move and turned, the sated, sensuous look vanishing from his face. His eyes were burnished metal in the lamplight as he watched the other shrug into his clothes.

" Wait," he said huskily. "What of my father?"

"What _of_ my son?" Vanimórë's teeth gleamed frostily in the wicked smile he sent over one shoulder. "He will be Fëanor. Who else?"

"Thank Eru."

Vanimórë, drawing the belt about his waist, laughed and walked across to him, bending his head. Disheveled hair tumbled about the arrogant Fëanorion face. The smile lingered for a moment. Maglor's mouth parted involuntarily. Vanimórë accepted the unspoken invitation, felt the fire leap between them again.

"His lips will taste like mine."

Maglor drew back. "I have no intention of — "

"He will still be Fëanor. And _my_ son. And that could be an...interesting combination." Vanimórë turned, smiling to himself at the curse hurled at his back, and jumped to the baluster. The night wind streamed through his hair. He glanced back, blowing a kiss before the wings of the great owl caressed the air and carried him away.

Maglor lowered his head to the pillows.  
"I loathe him, why can I not cease wanting him, wanting _either of them?" _

~~~

**Tanith**

The ship eased into the harbor, its black and silver sails collapsing in the warm air. Sailors swarmed to secure the rigging. There was a splash as the mooring chain went over the side, the thud of a ramp upon the quay.  
The Dock-Master, his eyes expertly taking in the ship's lines, sent a man running as six guards in silver-black livery tramped down the ramp. Between them walked an older man in rich robes, a heavy double-linked chain of office about his neck.

''This is the ship of Prince Eldarion Telcontar of the High Kingdom,'' he announced formally. ''We request safe harbor here.''

''Eldarion Telcontar?'' Khanad came to his feet, his eyes flashing to Vanimórë. ''Did you know he was coming?''

"There was nothing that would have made it occur to me," Vanimórë replied. "Prince Elphir and Lady Anwyn are friends of his. Perhaps their tale piqued his curiosity. Shall Elgalad and I go down? Elgalad knows him.

''My wedding is tomorrow. No matter, he must be greeted with all the courtesies due to him.'' Khanad beckoned Gthar. ''I sent a letter to King Elessar, with Prince Elphir.''

"I imagine Elessar wishes to know more about this land. His own life was not devoid of adventures and dangers, so he has sent his son." Vanimórë turned. "I will escort Eldarion here. I believe thou wilt like him."  
He passed through the door and Khanad hastily followed him to change into formal gear suited to greeting the Prince of the High Kingdom. ~

~~~


	37. The Prince And The Peredhil

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
  
**Tanith**

~ Eldarion stood still while the circlet was placed over his brow, then smiled and turned.

''Will I pass muster?''

''You will do, princeling,'' one of his companions conceded, smiling. ''Just remember, this is a strange land and in posture of war.''

Serious now, the prince nodded. ''I know. I am glad you are with me, although I think father would not have allowed me to come without you.''

Bright sunlight struck them as they walked on deck, pausing at the head of the ramp. Riding through the gathered crowds were several horsemen. Those in the rear were guards, arrayed in breastplates over kilts of metal, shin-guards and full-face helms, but the foremost riders wore no armor. They were clad in black leather, and they were not Men. They might have been the perfect illustration of opposites.

Cartha, reining in his mount behind said: ''More Elves, sir?''

_The Prince has Elven blood, and the two with him also have some Mortal blood, but are Peredhil, Half-Elven. They are sprung from the very rare unions between Elf and Man. _

Vanimórë knew them; tall and beautiful, sable-dark hair, eyes a pale, shining grey. The likeness between the twin sons of Elrond and Eldarion, son of Elessar was striking when one saw the three of them together.

Vanimórë and Elgalad dismounted and bowed gravely as the three descended the ramp, followed by their escort. Elgalad smiled and the prince's face warmed as he stepped forward.

''Elgalad. Lord Vanimórë.''

''Welcome to Tanith, Prince Eldarion, Lords Elladan and Elrohir,'' Vanimórë inclined his head. ''King Khanad has sent us to escort thee to the palace. This is auspicious, for the wedding of Khanad and the Princess of Chey Sart will be solemnized tomorrow.''

''We did not know we would be arriving at such a time,'' Eldarion replied. ''but we would be honored to attend the Kings wedding.''

Silently the twins voices sounded in Vanimórë's mind.

_We would speak, when it is convenient for you. _

_Of course, let us see all of thee quartered and relaxed after thy voyage, and I will tell thee anything thou doth wish to know. _

Servants had hurried to prepare quarters and set wine and food out in the chambers. The Ambassador, Lord Sídhan, was pleased with the respect shown, and not displeased with the abundance of gold-limbed maids who flitted about with refreshments.

It was good to bathe. Although the ship had put into ports, water was always saved for drinking on a long voyage; one must wash in sea-water. The baths which adjoined each bedchamber could easily accommodate several men and the sons of Elrond joined Eldarion as they soaped and rinsed the brine from their hair and relaxed.

''It is almost like home.'' Elladan reached out an arm for wine. 

"No-one could fault their welcome," Elrohir said. "However — " He stepped from the water and picked up a towel. ''As soon as may be, we need to speak with Vanimórë.''

''I would like to speak with Elgalad.'' Eldarion dried himself. ''What is wrong with him? He looks...''

''Heartsick,'' Elladan said.

~~~

Khanad gave the visitors two hours to bathe, eat and relax, before he sent escorts to bring them to the audience chamber. He blinked as they arrived, two of them were so alike that he could never have told them apart, and the prince so similar that he might have been another brother.

As they exchanged courtesies and bows, Elladan said, _He has the face and eyes of — _

_— A Dúnadan, _ Elrohir agreed.

_It is indeed true that the Númenoreans made landfall here and their blood — _

_— Still runs in the veins of the people._

''We did not know that we came at such a time, sire,'' Eldarion said. ''We have been informed that you are to be wed on the morrow.''

''I would be honored if you attend,'' Khanad looked at the twins again. ''Lord Vanimórë called you _Peredhil,_ sirs? Half-Elven? The old books of lore tell us the the first king of Númenor was both Mortal and Elven.''

"Elros Tar-Minyatur,'' Elladan said. "Yes, sire, he was our uncle."

Khanad, who thought that he was beyond being startled, shook his head but said, ''You are all most welcome here, sirs. Whatever Tanith may do to make your sojourn here more agreeable, you have only to ask.''

~~~

Vanimórë and Elgalad were waiting outside the guest chambers. Here the hallway was bounded by archways of lacy stone through which the light fell golden. It was utterly unlike the Kings House of Minas Tirith which, like all of that city, had been built as a fortress, and where the corridors were dark and lit by narrow openings. Tanith clearly had not seen siege for many long centuries. Like Annúminas in the North, this was a palace built for beauty and comfort and, save for the ornate Haradhan touches in the stonework and arches, the exotic servant girls with their kohl-rimmed eyes, it might have been the warm southern residence of a Northern king.

In Eldarion's ante-chamber they sat upon great pillows of tasseled silk and listened as Vanimórë gave a full account of his coming to Tanith, the darkness that dwelt upon the isle and the battle which had resulted in his entrapment in the Void. The twins eyes met again and again, thoughts flashing back and forth.

''That was too close,'' Elladan spoke at last.

"Much too close," Vanimórë agreed evenly.

Eldarion's brows crooked. ''And what of Sauron? Will he regain power as he did before?''

''Yes. Eventually. All I feel now, is as I did before, that his spirit exists, somewhere. I think it always will be on Arda as long as I am.''

There was silence for a long moment. ''So it begins again,'' Elladan murmured.

''It has never truly ended," Vanimórë said.

~~~

''Anwyn seemed well, when I saw her last,'' Eldarion walked with Elgalad in the gardens below the chambers. The feast to greet the guests from the north had been long, and it was near midnight when they dispersed. The Prince had asked Elgalad if they might talk and they had gone outside. Without need of consultation, silent as shadows, the Peredhil followed.

''I am g-glad,'' Elgalad said. ''She was brave, through those m-months.''

''What really happened?'' Eldarion asked. ''I know she was misused, but of course she would say little of it, nor would Elphir.''

''He r-raped her. As a man would rape a m-man.''

Eldarion said something which a prince should at least pretend not to know.  
''Why could not Vanimórë help her?''

''He did help her,'' Elgalad said levelly. ''He ensured that the Emir w-would only look at h-him.''

From somewhere close a night-bird sang. Eldarion shook his head. ''And what of you?''

"What of m-me?" Elgalad asked.

~~~

''I had to make thee sleep.''

''Why?'' Elgalad demanded. ''Thou wouldst have taken me in Mumak!''

''I know I would. And the soldier arriving at such a time was perhaps meant.''

''I do not believe that!'' Elgalad had whirled, and walked from Vanimórë's outstretched hand. Since then, very little had been said between them.

~~~

''I am surprised th-that thy father allowed thee to come.''

"He was interested, and I wanted to." Eldarion walked to a stone seat. "He did stipulate my uncles must come with me, since there had been war." 

In the shadows the Peredhil watched, their faces unearthly and sorrowful.

_The burden is too great._  
  
Love is a burden?  
  
Is it not, for him? Vanimórë cannot give him what he needs.  
  
Will not.  
  
And if he continues to withhold...  
  
Yes.  
  
Yet if Vanimórë's love for Elgalad is indeed what prevents him arising as another Dark Lord, Elgalad must not die...or we will have something more more subtle and more dangerous than Morgoth Bauglir.   
  
Chasms of fire and ice, memories of pain and hate lay under Vanimórë's self-mocking facade. He walked a blade over a bottomless pit of darkness.

~~~

"We wish to speak of Elgalad."  
The twins sought out Vanimórë the next evening and he waved them to a couch.  
''You know that our father was the greatest healer in Middle-earth, and also know that among the Elves the gift of healing is antithetical to that of taking life.''

Vanimórë bent his head.

''We are both warriors," Elladan continued. "Thus we are not great healers. You know that. But we can _see and sense_ sickness in Mortal, and soul-wounds in Elves.

"And," Elrohir said. "Elgalad is dying." ~

  



	38. My Father, The King

 

(Written by Anwyn)

  
A tree did not grow from a nut in a single day, and as Anwyn looked upon Aragorn she knew that what had been unearthed between them must be nurtured. She wished to know him as a father, but such an astonishing thing could not be hurried, for either of them.

As though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired the small group took their leave. Eowyn and Faramir moved in the direction of their room and the king sought his own. Clearly he had been a guest here before, for he needed no guidance and glancing over her shoulder, at the departing figures Anwyn slowly made her way back to her chamber.  
She paused at the door drawing a deep breath. Her body cried for rest, but her mind was in turmoil. As she entered the chamber Elphir, whom had been sitting on the the bed rose. Candles had been lit and now burned low in pools of liquid wax.

“I am sorry,” she said before he could speak, and Elphir bent his head in silent acceptance of her apology. When they fought, which was not uncommon, both made an effort not to linger upon any hurt feelings afterward.

“Where have you been?” Elphir’s tone was curious but not accusing.

“I was with my mother,” Anwyn answered confirming what Elphir already guessed. “And my father,” she continued which he had certainly not expected. Shame touched him for all the time his wife had wondered whom had sired her, he had sworn secrecy and would not break his word. “My father, the King. ” She had not seen the conflicted look which momentarily crossed her husband's face.

Elphir gathered her into her arms and she slumped against his chest, exhaustion beginning to take its toll upon her.

“Rest now, my love,” Elphir murmured as he gently stroked her hair. His eyes would have betrayed him were Anwyn in a more observant mood.

Muffled words were spoken into his chest before he felt the woman her go limp against him. He maneuvered her into the bed and covered her before he too settled in for the short hours that remained before dawn. ~

~~~


	39. When The Clouds Break

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**Tanith.**

  
~ _Does he not care?_ Elladan stared at Vanimórë.

_You know he does,_ Elrohir said. 

And Vanimórë's gem-hard eyes seemed to shatter, revealing a helpless, furious grief.  
''I cannot take him without taking _everything._'' He came to his feet. ''And then he would die of my hunger for him.'' He bowed his head against the wall. "I have to protect him. I _know_ he is dying, though how in the Hells can he die of loving me? He will die if I possess him, and die if I do not."

Elladan said, "Have you asked yourself if, somewhere beneath your love for him, you want him to die, so that there are no restraints on you?''

Rage flamed from Vanimórë like a wave of heat. The twins' hand went to their daggers. But he did not move, only his eyes burned in the white face  
''I have served under Morgoth, and Sauron. _I will not be them._'' he pronounced. The brothers had the impression that he was not speaking only to them, but to those dark masters, perhaps to the One Himself, a promise, an oath. ''It is not that. What runs in me is too black for Elgalad, it _needs_ too much. And I never learned to _give._''

''Never learned to give?" Elrohir repeated. "You are a blind fool. You give all the time, sparing nothing of yourself. If what is within you were that black, you would have taken Elgalad already. What will you become without him?''

''Elgalad is not going to die,'' The rebuttal was Eldarion's, and the three in the room turned. His eyes blazed as he looked from the twins to Vanimórë. ''I can see for myself he is sick to his soul, what have you done to him?''

''I have done nothing. That is why his soul is sick. And I permit you to speak thus only because you care for him, Eldarion.'' Power surfaced in the rich voice, hummed in the stone. ''No, I do not threaten you, but you are too young to understand.''

''I understand desire,'' the prince retorted.

Vanimórë's one-sided smile was thoughtful. "Truly," he conceded.

''He may or may not die if you claim him,'' Elrohir said.'' But if you do not, he certainly will and within a season, if I am any judge.'' He came to his feet. "We would offer to take him back to Imladris if there was any hope he would go."

Vanimórë was indrawn, as if looking into himself, his soul. Abruptly he turned, strode from the room.

''Will he die? If Vanimórë possesses him?'' Eldarion asked, looking stricken.

''I pray not.'' Elladan laid a hand on his shoulder, his face troubled. ''Vanimórë is wrong, you see. He can love. He can give. But he thinks it coin of no value. I have never,'' he added, "Known any-one who hates himself so bitterly."

~~~

Khanad had returned to his rooms after dawn and then went to Aiana. He had found her sleeping, Elgalad sitting beside her and was grateful to the Elf. He reflected, as he drew his concubine into his arms that he, like Elgalad had a difficult path before him, not the least because he pitied Sathari. She had had no choice in whom she married, and he would not resent her for something which was not her fault. But Vanimórë had said _"She will have been ordered to report to the Khagan, but I am sure you know this."_

The King had learned young that even in the aftermath of lovemaking one did not whisper secrets, and had nodded.

~~~

Elgalad went back to his rooms, undressed and lay down. These last weeks he had felt unusually weary, sleeping, dreaming golden memories of long ago.

_Am I strong enough to keep thee alive? _ wondered Vanimórë as he crossed and stood beside the bed. Elgalad's spirit was growing weaker, like a bird beating its wings against the bars of a cage until it breaks them and sits gravid, waiting for death.

_Can I take thee without taking...everything? _

He did not think so. His long hands dug into his hair, clasping his skull.

_I am going to take the Harad. All of it, Khanad can keep Mumak. I will weld the Haradhan realms together into an Imperium. I will look East, to Chey Sart and Khand and beyond. I will bring order to that which I rule. It is all I know how to do. But I need Elgalad with me, I would not be a tyrant. I will not be another Dark Lord. _

He removed his clothes, went to a casket and withdrew a phial of oil. Unraveling the thick braids which held his hair he knelt, watching Elgalad, seeing the pallor to his skin, the faint blue of veins at his temples. One arm lay over his stomach, and the taut hard muscles in it were an odd contrast to the vulnerability of his face.

_ How can I not love thee? And how can I not destroy thee? _

His lips touched Elgalad's, felt the spirit wandering far among green fields of childhood.

In the dream he was a child running, following the flight of white butterflies. The wind was warm, the air filled with summer. He laughed, stretching out his hands. Then he turned and saw Vanimórë, his guardian, his beloved lord and flung himself toward him. And then he was grown to manhood, caught into an embrace of steel and fire — and love. Their lips met with shattering need. He moaned in delight, felt the cascade of raven hair over his naked flesh, and it was so real, so real...

Vanimórë saw the images in Elgalad's mind, knew that one day soon he would never wake.

Elgalad fell to his hands and knees. The grass was silk under him, smelled of spices. He shivered in the extremity of his desire, his teeth locking together.

Vanimórë caressed the erection, the sac, before he positioned himself, and eased into Elgalad's tightness, pushed deep in one smooth stroke.

He shuddered at Elgalad's cry, at the heat which enclosed him. Elgalad's back arched inward, his hair spread over the covers like water. Seeing himself buried to the hilt, sweat sprang from Vanimórë's pores. A sound forced itself from deep in his throat. He wrapped his fingers about Elgalad's cock, withdrew, then thrust in again. This would not be a gentle lovemaking. And it seemed Elgalad did not want it to be, he was almost frightening in his raw need. This was the man of the Greenwood's wild rites, the Elgalad hidden under sweet beauty, gentle grace. And Vanimórë could not get enough, could not _feel_ enough of him. He wanted to make Elgalad part of him, lock them forever in this union. Flash slammed against flesh, pleasure rose and rose to the keenness of pain. Vanimórë held himself there, teeth set, plunging into Elgalad's core, until the body around his shuddered, and Elgalad cried out like a man with a mortal wound, spilled over his hand in throbbing spasms. Only then did Vanimórë permit himself release. He fell into light.

Elgalad drew in a long, gasping breath. He dropped to the covers, and turned into Vanimórë's arms. 

''Yes." His voice smiled. There was no stammer. "Now let me hold thee.''

The words echoed in Elgalad's mind as he surfaced from the dream. For a moment, his heart plunged in despair that he must return to the world. Then his eyes focused. He became aware of his body pulsing, aching with the aftermath of sex. He raised his head, knew his eyes held triumph. Vanimórë's lips were on his, sumptuous, eager. His soul took wing like an eagle.

''I thought I was dreaming.''

''No.'' The love, the astonishment in Vanimórë's voice sent fresh fire into his loins. ''They tried to tell me, all of them, what thou wert, and still, I did not expect this.''

Elgalad tucked his head into the angle between Vanimórë's throat and shoulder, nuzzled the hot skin. He waited, smiling, for the shiver of need, and it came. His hand drifted down the hard chest, the muscled stomach, to the stirring sex.

And Vanimórë, roused again, thought, _I will eat thee up. I do not know how to hold back, how not to take all he is._

The thought fell away, drowned in Elgalad's hair as he moved over him, raised himself, and pushed down onto Vanimórë's cock.  
His eyes were unfathomable, the colour of rain in sunlight, and they were all Vanimórë could see through the savage beauty of that night.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen **

If Fanari had permitted it there would probably have been a dozen witnesses to Fëanor's birth. The antechamber beyond her bedroom was filled with people.  
When the labor pangs began, she had sent a message to Fingolfin, to Maedhros and her son, but she had not expected all the Fëanorions to converge on her home. When her maid told her, she opened the door of her bedchamber, took one look, closed it and put her back to it.

''They are _not_ all coming in,'' she said, and locked the door.

Cloths fragrant with lavender water were pressed to her forehead. She tried to concentrate on her breathing, on pushing when she must to help this child. It was a quicker birth than Tindómion's had been, but no less gruelling. With a last moan, a sudden rush within her, the baby came and was taken to be cleaned.

''He is beautiful.'' She opened her eyes as he was laid on her breast. A fluff of raven hair crowned his brow, and his fingers and toes were perfect, the little body strong in the compact, hard way of male children. Long black lashes lifted, and Fanari saw diamond-bright eyes. Rosebud lips parted in a small, demanding cry.

''Fëanor,'' Fanari murmured. ''Welcome.''

Once the afterbirth had come, and she was bathed, she nodded for the the chamber door to be opened. Her bed was surrounded. 

Fingolfin reached out then, with a look at Maedhros, stepped aside so that the eldest son might take Fëanor in his arms.

For once there was no arguments. The gemfire eyes regarded them with a look that was not a child's at all, and he did not protest as one son after another and then Fingolfin held him before he was handed back to Fanari. She had half-thought they might leave with him. 

''I thank thee,'' Fingolfin said to her gravely smiling. But under the gravity was joy.

They left her to rest and she slept, but the child lay awake in her arms.  
And Fëanor smiled. ~

~


	40. Epiphany

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)  
  
  
The birth-cry echoed in his mind. It was of him yet uniquely itself, burning like a new, young star.

The falcon alighted upon the balustrade, became Vanimórë, who silently crossed to the bed. Fanari slept. He smiled, looked at the child.

This was a strange feeling, one which would be too poignant if he allowed it. His son — at least he had been used to engender the child. He touched the mind with his own, and his brows rose. New, yet interwoven with an ancient _fëa_ which would always be Fëanor, it was a magnificent edifice.

His hand paused above the black crowned head and he saw...

_He saw. _

For a moment he felt true fear, closed his eyes against it, and then, because there was nothing else he could do, he accepted the vision. He laid a hand on the child's head, and the unearthly eyes looked at him.

_Is this why thou art reborn, and with power?_ Carefully he placed the vision in the infant mind and walled it off. _ But this thou shalt know only later._ Bending, he kissed the child's brow, then turned and left as quietly as he had come.

~~~

  
Autumn was come again and in a grove of silver birch where the leaves were turning gold, the two faced one another.

"Why didst thou call me?" Maglor asked.

"I know what thy father is. There will be a time in the future when the world will need him." 

"What he is? I know what he is."

"Thou dost not, not yet," Vanimórë said. "And I also know what thou art."

A breeze stirred the leaves with the sound of a far off sea. Blue-black flowed into polished jet.

"And what am I?" Maglor whispered.

"Magnificent." A teasing smile gleamed. "Thou and I, Elgalad and I, Fëanor and thyself. We are all linked."

Maglor stared into Vanimórë's face.  
"Elgalad?"

"Jealous, my beauty?"

"I would not be jealous of any-one entangled with thee."

"Nor would I." The amusement drained away.

Maglor said, lower. "Only give to him. That is all he wants."

"A question: Thinks't thou I do not give? Have I only ever _taken_ from thee?"

"It hardly matters. I do not love thee, and thou canst not hurt me." And Maglor wondered, _Why now? What happened that he should at last claim Elgalad?_

"That is true. I could not kill thee."

The wind died. From high above came the cries of geese winging south. It sounded like hounds baying across the sky. Winter was coming early in the north.

"Kill him?" Maglor asked, hollow. 

"I took him because he was dying. He needed me — physically." The laugh was all acid. "He is doomed as my lover, doomed if he is not. There is no way out." The pain in his eyes was unbearable. "I did not know, or chose not to see, quite how much he needed me. I will take all he offers. I always knew I would. And he offers _everything._ I cannot refuse." 

Of course he could not. No-one else had ever offered him what Elgalad did.  
"Bring him here. He needs others around him. If thou art afraid to take too much, then he must not always be with thee." It occurred to Maglor that they were speaking without the cut and thrust of double-edged words.

"Perhaps it would help him." Vanimórë did not believe it. If only Elgalad did not give so much. He kept not one last bastion of the heart for himself.

Maglor hesitated, asked: "What wilt thou do, after Tanith?"

"Build an Empire," Vanimórë answered glibly. 

"Is that truly thy desire?"

"I am..._quite_ good at ruling. I am quite good at many things."

"Except sharing thy pain," Maglor threw at him. "And I have seen it, felt it, when thy sister died, and now. Listen to me: I know what it is to loose those one loves. I was mad, lost until..."

"Until _this?_" 

Maglor's back hit the tree-stem. He closed his eyes. Lust burned a path through his veins. He felt the ties of his shirt unloose, the garment tugged over his head. His hands were slammed back around the birch, and a cord pulled about his wrists. It took no time at all. 

''What in the Hells..?'' Maglor flung himself against the restraints. Memories of his torture in Barad-dûr banished desire. 

''I am not he.'' A hard body pressed against his.

''Release me!'' Maglor heard the edge of blossoming panic in his voice and snapped it off with a bite of white teeth.

''This experience need not equate with shame.''

Maglor turned his head from the kiss, felt Vanimórë's mouth move to his ear, his throat. His tongue flicked over a nipple. Maglor's stomach muscles contracted as his breeches and boots were pulled off.

''Thou art truly..._beautiful,_'' Vanimórë's mouth insistently teased the cock that had gone flaccid with fear. His fingers clasped Maglor's buttocks, whose sex stirred as it was lapped. He groaned as he was taken deep into Vanimórë's throat. The mouth worked him, the tongue probing, swirling, and then he was drawn on so hard that he began to pant and thrust forward. He closed his eyes, tension burning in his loin, burning and building, until he came with a force that left him shaking.

''That was not too terrible was it?'' Maglor tasted his own essence on Vanimórë's lips, felt the hard arousal pressing into him, then cool air enveloped his heated flesh. Opening his eyes, he saw Vanimórë buckling on his harness. Then he walked away.

''What...?'' he struggled. Vanimórë turned back with a gleam of fun in his eyes. He unloosed the ties. Maglor, glaring, lowered his eyes.

''I was_so_ tempted to leave thee thus, to see how thou wouldst explain it when some-one found thee.'' he said. ''The first time. But not the last.'' Maglor reached for his breeches, and straightened, outraged as he received a hard slap across his backside.

''That is a rear which just _begs_ me to take it,'' Vanimórë appreciatively. And laughed.

~~~

** Tanith **

Aiana had been brought to childbed in the summer, and it was a girl. She was disappointed, but Khanad was not, only relieved she and the child were so healthy. There was celebration, and Sathari prayed to conceive as soon as might be.

There were some stirrings in the Seven Dominions after the conquest of Mumak, reports of greater strength at the borders, then quiet settled again as the neighboring lands watched and waited.

''They will be the next.'' Vanimórë tapped his fingers on the map. ''The Seven Dominions; wealthy, and with a far greater army to put into the field than Mumak had _if_ the kingdoms could reach agreement with one another.'' His eyes rose to the King's and a smile gleamed there. ''But they will not.''

''How can you be so sure?'' Khanad asked and Vanimórë laughed softly.  
''I will make sure they do not, sire.''

~~~

Eldarion had sent a letter to his father saying that there was much he could learn in Tanith. Vanimórë sparred with him and took him to see the warriors and his cavalry units. Eldarion saw that this was a nation preparing for war, to move fast and strike quickly. 

One day Vanimórë rode with Eldarion, the Peredhil and Elgalad to a house in the north of the city. Set behind high walls, it was unpretentious, almost modest, tended by a few silent servants. Leading them up to a room, Vanimórë unlocked a sturdy door and opened it to reveal a chamber at the center of which was a table. There was a centerpiece covered by cloth. Vanimórë drew back the window shutters, cast the cloth aside.

The twins' minds exploded in astonishment. Set in a cup carved into the table was a globe. It seemed to be made of black glass, though its surface shifted as if the glass had been blown around oil.

''It is the Ithil-stone.'' Elladan stepped forward. At Vanimórë's quizzical expression, he went on: ''It has to be, considering your connection to Mordor. It seems to indeed be true, then that very little can harm one of the _Palantiri._''

''Yes, it is the Ithil-stone. Sauron took it long ago when he captured that city.''

Eldarion stared at the globe in fascination. He had seen the Orthanc-stone, but it was said that there were only three other Palantiri in existence; one was located in the Tower of Elostirion, west of the Shire, and that was in the care of the Elves of Lindon. It was said to look west only, towards where the Master-stone abode on Tol Eressëa. The Palantir that Denethor had used, and which had driven him mad, was in Minas Tirith. The King never used it; he kept the Orthanc stone in the new-built Osgiliath. 

''How did you find it?'' Elrohir asked.

''When Barad-dûr was destroyed the stone was flung clear,'' Vanimórë said. ''I found it in the rubble in the skirts of the Ered Lithui. Sauron always said that only the fires of Orodruin would break it.''

''It is you causing Orodruin to wake from slumber?'' Eldarion asked suddenly and Vanimórë smiled at him.  
''The mountain is an active volcano, prince. Although it does seem to sense me, as it did my father.''

''Have you used this?'' the prince asked.

''It is not my right.''

''That did not matter to Sauron.''

''I am not Sauron.'' It was a snap. ''And I do not need it. Thou may look in it to communicate with thy father, if thou wilt, and take it with thee when thou doth return. Perhaps thou wilt need it, in times to come.''

~~~

Tanith's army continued to grow. Hand-picked men joined Vanimórë's elite legion the Steelguard, who bore his insignia of sable bordered by purple, a colour forbidden to all but he and Elgalad.

The warriors of other cities, disappointed at not being sent to Tanith, were always surprised when a horn call would announce the arrival of the Warlord to inspect them and thus none felt overlooked, and their officers pushed them hard, not wishing Vanimórë to consider them provincial. Khanad sometimes accompanied Vanimórë, and this year took his queen and Aiana. Eldarion and the sons of Elrond, who would depart in the spring, also came with them.

All were the subject of much gossip and comment. Khanad was hailed as a just king after the despotism of Taraluk, and the Elven-blood were always curiosities.

Vanimórë might go among the warriors and speak to them as any general, but he was too alien to be liked. Nothing could hide the preternatural light of his eyes, the inhuman beauty of his face, his deadly skills in battle. The Battle of the Plain was recounted again and again. Other rumors spread. He was referred to not as the Warlord, but the Dark God.

The Prince communicated with his father using the Ithil-stone, at which Elessar had been astonished, believing it lost. The king asked him of news and most of all of Vanimórë. Yet Eldarion could tell him little, for while the son of Sauron was gracious, even friendly, there were depths to him that the prince could not fathom. He did not understand what Elgalad saw in him to love so devoutly but he did see what there was to desire. His words to Aragorn were chosen carefully after long speech with his uncles, who said, ''Morgoth once wore a guise fair enough to deceive some of the Valar, and so also did this Sauron, as Annatar. There is a darkness in Vanimórë, but he is capable of great love. Let us hope he loves enough to balance the dark, for he treads a very narrow path.'' ~

~~~


	41. Chapter 41

 

(Written by Spiced Wine)

  
**Tanith**

The autumn and winter were good seasons to travel on the South. Khanad and his warlord progressed from city to city, where they were greeted and housed with much ceremony.  
Eldarion spoke with both Aiana and the queen, coming to appreciate how Khanad had to balance the love he felt for his concubine with the respect must show to Sathari. He might face a similar situation himself one day. Because he was intrigued by Chey Sart, he spoke to Sathari. She was unaccustomed to speaking with with men, but he persevered.

They were in Idenz, a city some hundred leagues north of Tanith on a day of heavy rain. Servants closed the shutters against the sudden wind, and lit lamps. It was an afternoon for reading, for relaxing, for quiet conversation, although Vanimórë had ridden out to inspect the garrison with Cartha, whom he had promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. 

Vanimórë had his reasons. Cartha hailed from the Seven Dominions, and Vanimórë knew little of those lands. Cartha was in an invidious position. He had adopted Tanith as his home, but could not shake the feeling of guilt that accompanied his conversations with the Warlord.

Eldarion told Sathari of his parents, of the War of the Ring, in which Chey Sart had not been involved. Vanimórë said that Sauron would have turned on Chey Sart after Gondor was defeated.

''It sounds like an old legend,'' Sathari said.

''What legends do you have in your land, lady?'' Eldarion asked.

''We have tales of the men with the bright eyes, and the White Fiends whom our ancestors fought, but they are from a time before we recorded such things, passed down word-of-mouth,'' she replied. ''I thought such beings were myths, until I came here. They...disturb me. You yourself look like one.''

''The history of the Elves is a tragic one, lady,'' he said quietly as a slap of wind thrust at the shutters, and a draft sent the candle flames jumping. ''Glory and much sorrow is ever interwoven with them. I am not Elf. I wish I were. I am Mortal and will die.''

Because she asked, he told her of the Elder Days, and the light dimmed as they spoke to the evening. A knock on the door startled her. Ulela bowed and said, ''My lady, the evening meal is here. Do you wish music?''

''Have it brought in.'' Sathari knew that there was no feast tonight, and the King would undoubtedly be with Aiana. This prompted her to turn to Eldarion and say: ''Perhaps you would stay to dine with me, my lord?''

Eldarion nodded courteously.  
''I would be glad to.''

''No music, Ulela, my ladies may please themselves this evening, and you may retire when you wish.'' The woman inclined her head and pulled the door shut.

The weather remained inclement, and Khanad decided to stay in Idenz until it cleared, which pleased the Lord of the city, a young man of some ambition. The men gambled, drank hot wine, played at _Tar,_ and flirted. The Warlord and Elgalad were mostly out. The Prince and the Peredhil joined them at whiles, but the evenings found people drifting to their chambers early.

Vanimórë watched the burgeoning friendship between Eldarion and Sathari, and wondered what he could do with it. His perspective had changed since the vision.  
It would not happen for a long time, as men counted the years, but so much would be lost. Here and there legends would remain, but they would inevitably be garbled. Vanimórë wanted Arda to _remember._ There was only so much that might be salvaged. He and Glorfindel, among others, would do what they could.

Elgalad was asleep, his breathing deep and peaceful. Vanimórë disengaged himself and walked to the balcony, unlatching the shutters. The rain had ceased, water dripped from the roof tiles, and a cool, damp wind blew in. A star pierced the rack of blowing clouds for an instant and he gazed at it, his jaw set, until it winked out. He turned back, closing the shutters, and his heart slammed against his chest as he gazed at Elgalad.

_I know why he must die. And when. It fits. Glorfindel, thou wilt have to hold the Haven. _

_ I will. _ The mental answer was accompanied by the equivalent of a strong hand on his shoulder.

He returned before dawn, in the darkest hours. Elgalad stirred as he felt the strong arms gather him close. A luscious smile curved his mouth.

_I cannot hold thee forever. But one day, when all is ended, there will be no more parting for us. I swear it. _

''Where didst th-thou go?'' Elgalad asked.

''To ensure something for the future.'' He kissed the glimmering crown of hair. ''Go to sleep, my dear.''

A long leg slid over his thighs. _ I think not, my love._ He kissed like honey, like wine. _I want thee to take me until I beg thee to stop, and then until I weep, and then until I know nothing more._   
  
The words burgeoned need in his loins. He almost gasped. He could not make even the pretense of resistance.  


_ Yes,_ he thought. _I will take thee — until thou canst take no more._

~~~

**New Cuiviénen **

''Istelion?''

Tindómion turned in his saddle as the open wagon rolled past, piled with furnishings, wine, tools.

''Art thou leaving?'' Gil-galad asked, his brows raised.

''We are moving some things to a lodge.'' Tindómion glanced around, then drew his mount alongside the others. ''Father has asked if I will help in making a place for Elgalad to stay.''

Gil-galad nodded. "May I ride with thee?"

''Of course.''

The wagon rolled along the paved road which skirted Gaear Gwathluin. The wavelets were choppy this day, and wading birds skimmed and settled, whirled like leaves before alighting again. To the east the Orocarni were lost in low cloud. Tindómion spoke to the driver, who nodded, then flashed a smile at Gil-galad, and urged his horse into a gallop.

Gil-galad caught up and they raced neck and neck, as if they would run to meet the winter which was coming down. When at last they paused, there was no-one else in sight. Gaear Gwathluin was grey as hammered iron under the louring sky.

''It reminds me of Lindon.''

''Yes.'' Tindómion ran his gloved hand down the stallion's neck. "I miss it."

''As do I. So where is this lodge?''

''See where that rocky outcrop pierces the forest canopy? A stream comes forth from it. There. ''

''A pleasant spot. Perhaps Fanari should have a place like that to escape from all those who wish to help in raising Fëanor.''

Her son smiled. ''She would never escape them. It would be useless to try.''

They turned east toward the outlying trees, riding in the silence which comes of long acquaintance. It could indeed have been an Age long gone, the two of them in Lindon before the last of the High Elven Kings went down into shadow. Night drew in. The wind strengthened with a sound like surf. At last they saw a light shining out through the trees and headed toward it.

The wagon was pulled up before the house. The horses, loosed from their traces, dozed, hip-shotten. A stream fretted down the hill and past the house on its short journey to the Gaear Gwathluin.

A balcony surrounded the dwelling. It was not large, but built in the same elegant lines as all Noldor structures, and Gil-galad said, ''Who built it?''

''Father and I, he brought masons; we all had a hand in it.'' Tindómion loosed the headstall, and let his mount graze and they trod up the steps to the main door. ''Mother and her ladies wove the rugs and hangings.''

From the hallways, doors lead off and a flight of steps arched upward. In the kitchen, the driver was finishing a meal. he rose and bowed as the two entered.

"So thou hast been here, and not deliberately avoiding me?" Gil-galad's tone was arch.

"Not this time," Tindómion riposted. 

''Thou didst say Elessar Telcontar would never take lands where Elves dwelt?" At the question which came from nowhere, Tindómion shook his head and Gil-galad continued. "Beyond the River Lhûn was always ours, and further yet, in the years before Númenor was destroyed."

''Elessar would never lay claim to Lindon, I think his son would not either. So thou hast decided?"

''Yes.'' Their eyes held. ''Lindon. Rebuild, take my people back there.''

"And wed?" The Fëanorion challenged. ''There are still those who say that despite our new freedom, we have a duty to produce children.''

Gil-galad slammed his hand against the wall, blocking Tindómion's progress.  
''And wilt thou, my _love?_''

Tindómion stiffened at the endearment, turned away. Gil-galad stepped before him.

''When I am King of Lindon, my stubborn Fëanorion...'' He thrust hard with both hands, sending Tindómion against a door. Faintly ajar, it opened and the Gil-galad pushed again. Tindómion's legs hit the wide bed. He fell back, and Gil-galad straddled him.

''Be still, I command thee.'' He caught Tindómion's wrists, slammed them above his head, and kissed him. At first anger dominated it then, as the mouth under his softened, sensuality melted through it like hot wine. Flame licked over his flesh as he felt the tall body stir under him, the hardness of his arousal.

''Thou dost want me,'' he murmured throatily.

Long lashes hid the blaze of the silver eyes. ''I never denied it.''

''Then do not deny me now!'' Gil-galad thrust against him. Tindómion groaned and pushed back on a sudden surge of desire.

''I should make thee suffer all the agonies of unfulfilled desire I did, for at least an Age.'' Swathes of jet hair spilled onto the silks, spreading like ink. He ground against Tindómion again and again and heavy breaths of lust filled the room.

To be worthy of these damned brilliant, fiery Fëanarions one must prove oneself able to master them.  
And very few could.

Gil-galad drew back, gripping Tindómion's wrists with one hand and unbuckled his belt with the other. Opening his breeches, he swooped down and took the hard erection in his mouth.

Tindómion cried out, his hips bucking up and Gil-galad feasted on him until, with a stifled moan, musky essence filled his mouth. He drank every drop.

''Thou wilt come to me when I order thee, Istelion, I have said I will _everything_ thou hast to give. I am going to bind thee to my soul, my lover." The blue-silver eyes burned in the darkness. Gil-galad ached with hunger. He wanted to bury himself himself in Tindómion's body until he cried out for more and for mercy. _And I will give him none._  
  
This was the game they played. And they both enjoyed it.  
He pushed himself from the bed, spun on one foot and left the room. The door shut with a bang. After a moment Tindómion rose, his thighs still trembling.

''Yes, sire. My king.'' He smiled and there was something in his voice of both satisfaction and anticipation.

~~~

In Tanith, Sathari presented Khanad with his heir.  
Not a month later the Tanithian armies moved to clash on the borders of the Seven Dominions. In the north Elessar of the High Kingdom watched in his seeing-stone.

The purple-black banner streamed over legions of mounted knights and heavy infantry in a swirl of smoke and blood with the Warlord ever in the forefront; death in sable armor.  
Eastward, Pallando held counsel with the Great Khagan, and lamps burned long into the night, but Chey Sart, secure behind its mountains, felt itself safe from the seemingly unstoppable force which had crashed like summer thunder out of the deep south.

In the hidden beauty of New Cuiviénen a raven haired child with eyes of jeweled fire took his first steps and ran across a wide room to Fingolfin, who picked him up. Small arms clung about his neck. The boy kissed his cheek and then gazed at the others who surrounded him, their eyes brilliant and tender. He loved them all, and was loved in return. He knew it, expected nothing less. And Fëanor smiled. ~  



End file.
